


The Enemy Kept Closest

by Eguinerve



Category: Arthurian Mythology, La Légende du Roi Arthur - Savio & Skread & Zaho/Chouquet/Attia
Genre: Accidental Marriage, Enemies to Lovers, Falling In Love, Forehead Kisses, Lack of Communication, M/M, Marriage Proposal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-12
Updated: 2020-05-04
Packaged: 2020-08-20 00:23:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 19
Words: 71,806
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20218738
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eguinerve/pseuds/Eguinerve
Summary: Arthur makes Maleagant an offer impossible to refuse.





	1. The Offer

**Author's Note:**

> A few things I want to make clear about this story.   
First of all, it’s not in any shape or form historically accurate. I mean, you can’t really make Arthurian fiction historically accurate without losing most of the key elements, but you _can _ be pretty faithful to its medieval setting… I wasn’t.   
Second of all, while it’s based on the french musical’s version of events, you don’t really have to watch it to understand most of what’s happening.   
Finally, I wrote this story during nanowrimo and it’s still basically the first draft. It IS being edited but only to avoid the most glaring mistakes. It’s not meant to be perfect.   
If all of this doesn’t scare you, please, enjoy the story!

Maleagant’s whole life ends in a span of seconds, in that brief moment when his enemy overpowers him and shifts the balance just enough to drive the knee into his stomach, to push him with such force that the swords flies from his hand and clatters uselessly to the ground. 

If Maleagant had time he would wonder where Arthur got all this strength, heavily injured as he is.

If he had time he would lament the cruel fate that once again turned its back on him and chose its favorite son, a foolish boy who may be decent with a blade but still not good enough to rule the whole Britain, not good enough to take what should be Maleagant’s, although he _does_ it, time and time again.

Maleagant spits blood seeping from his split lip, presses his palm to his side trying to ease the agonizing hurt. His bruised ribs ache and every breath brings a sharp flare of pain.

He is completely and utterly defeated.

He’s on the ground, cast down and broken, his sword is just a few feet away, but he won’t be able to reach it in time, push the pain away, rise on his feet and continue the battle.

He won’t be able to save his life.

Arthur’s face is twisted in a helpless rage when he raises Excalibur to deal the final blow.

Maleagant holds his head high and meets his foe’s eyes unflinching, clinging to pathetic remains of his dignity. There is so _little_ of it left when the blow to his pride has already been final. It doesn’t matter what happens next.

Arthur falters.

He stops short, his sword still raised but its trajectory broken, and the seemingly inevitable turns to a different path. The rage doesn’t leave his eyes, but it dims to something harsh and unyielding.

The resolution, the sentence that’s his to deal.

“No,” Arthur speaks harshly. “Gods won’t accept your sacrifice. And I—”

_He_ is no god, Maleagant thinks, he’s not even the one to know their will, he just hides behind the words his inexplicable unwillingness to kill.

Arthur’s hand trembles slightly and he stumbles over his words, uncertainly flickering on his face for a brief moment before it disappears. Maleagant doesn’t miss it. He doesn’t miss _anything_, his mind already searching for a way to turn this situation around, even though deep in his heart he knows there isn’t one.

“I don’t want your death, I can’t—” the words fail Arthur once again, but he stubbornly pushes through. “You are a knight. I am not.” He pauses and grits his teeth and commands Maleagant like he has any right to. “Get on your feet.”

He finally lowers the blade refusing to strike, clinging to his honor and the false notion of their equality. Maleagant can’t fool himself enough to believe it. Not when he’s surrounded by Arthur’s knights who look at him with their gazes full of superiority and contempt. Maleagant’s own warriors are overpowered. They lost their fervor with their leader defeated, with his life threatened by the one who has every right for a kill.

They won’t help him now.

_Nothing_ will.

Maleagant takes a deep breath, hissing from the agony that spreads through his chest, rolls on his side and pushes himself up from the ground, hoping to ignore the pain just enough to make himself stand.

Even in his last moments, he won’t remain weak before his enemy.

“Make me your equal,” Arthur says.

It’s not a command, it sounds like a _plea_, and it’s so distracting Maleagant almost misses the meaning of the words.

His arm gives way and he loses his balance, barely avoiding falling face first in the cold muddy ground. He’s sure that he misheard, that the fog in his head must’ve muddled his thoughts.

“No!” he hears one of the knights cry out. “My king, no! What have you done?”

_What_ has he done?

With these words that rang loud and clear throughout the whole battlefield, in front of the numerous witnesses from both sides, Arthur Pendragon just made Maleagant a sacred and binding offer.

He can’t take it back now.

Maleagant raises his head to take in the looks on the knights’ faces. There is no hint of superiority left there. Some seem confused, but most of them know _exactly_ what happened. Lowlifes may have forgotten the ways of the past, but nobles remember.

They are so far from victory they considered theirs.

Maleagant knows that feeling too well.

The silence on the battlefield is thick like an autumn fog. No one dares to say a word, confused and wary, and it’s Maleagant’s turn now to give his judgment.

He finally finds enough strength to get on his feet, straightens his back and squares his shoulders. Breathing still hurts, but the smell of triumph in the air is so deliciously sweet.

It takes every ounce of his willpower not to sway, and yet the pain already starts to subside. It’s just a bruising after all. He’s in better shape than his enemy.

Arthur looks at him in confusion, his eyes clouded with pain, his face pale and lips almost blue from the blood loss he suffered. Maleagant meets his eyes and lets out a sharp, humorless laugh.

He takes a few steps back until he feels his warriors’ secure presence. He may be willing to trust Arthur’s honor, but not his knights.

The ritual has already begun and Maleagant should be _untouchable_ now, and yet it means so little when there is so much at stake, those things many would deem more important than clinging to tradition.

It’s too early, too foolish to relax. He already made this mistake once.

It’s not over yet. 

“Maleagant!” Leodegrance breaks the silence, his voice strained and full of utterly fake outrage. “The offer was made, you must give your—”

Maleagant doesn’t try to fight a scowl.

“I,” he interrupts harshly, “mustn’t do _anything_ you say. You, however, still owe me a debt.”

He may have lost, but Leodegrance still promised him his daughter’s hand, and that is no less binding than the foolish king’s offer. Far more compelling too.

Leodegrance blanches and hides his eyes, and Maleagant can’t push away bitter contempt that fills his heart and twists his mouth into a mockery of a smile.

The sniveling coward, the traitor. How wonderfully quick he is to use this mess to his own gain, to try and save his darling daughter from being wed to a _monster_.

It must not matter to him that_ his king_ will suffer this fate in her stead, that he will be bound to his most bitter enemy because of a terrible, foolish mistake.

It can’t be anything _but_ a mistake.

There is no doubt what Arthur truly wants and what equality he speaks of. He’s just a child who was raised by a lowly knight, he couldn’t have known that such simple words are capable of condemning him.

Maleagant can let it slide. He can forget the mishap and give Arthur his precious knighthood. The chance to ever win the throne fairly is lost to him now, but Guinevere_ isn’t_.

Maleagant turns back to Arthur and heads towards him slowly, his movements deliberately precise and graceful despite the pain.

The boy still holds the sword in his hand, doesn’t lower it for a second even if his arm is visibly trembling. His gaze is bold and clear. 

Maleagant’s fingers encircle the hilt, briefly brushing Arthur’s startlingly cold skin, and when the sword is finally his—

He takes a swift step back, raises the blade and points it squarely at his enemy’s heart.

Arthur’s knights are quick to react, the fastest of them the one who tried to warn his king not so far back. Maleagant finally recognizes him. It is _Gawain_, the eldest son of King Loth and Arthur’s not so distant cousin.

No wonder he’s so protective of his kin.

Gawain’s eyes are alight with hatred and contempt, and his sword delivers the threat just as clearly. There is no doubt he will kill Maleagant if he dares to move, if he gives him even the slightest of reasons to strike.

Maleagant doesn’t pay him any attention.

It’s _Arthur_ who has it all. So fearless, unwavering and determined. Catching Maleagant’s gaze, he raises his palm to stop his knights from interfering and then—

He simply lowers himself to one knee as if utterly assured he will be knighted.

His expression is pained, his temples glisten with sweat and the hand that’s pressed to his stomach is stained with blood. He seems to be struggling to stay conscious, but Maleagant refuses to hurry.

There is only so much mercy he’s able to spare to the boy that, willingly or not, took _everything_ from him.

The weight of Excalibur feels right in Maleagant’s hand, the heralded king bent the knee before him. He should feel triumphant, but _can’t_. It isn’t a true victory. Arthur’s blind faith in Maleagant’s honor only paints him a fool. That _honor_ was twisted and broken four years ago when the crowd showed him its true worth, and what remains of it is barely enough to fight the burning desire to strike Arthur when he’s weak.

All of his carefully laid plans, all of his schemes and fleeting successes mean _nothing_ in the light of his recent defeat. He should feel suffocating bitterness and rage, but those don’t come either. _He_ wields the power now if only by mistake, and it will be his choice and his mercy to grant Arthur his knighthood.

An opportunity to crash that disgusting, shameful hope in Leodaragance’s eyes is a poor consolation prize, but Maleagant will take it. He will take Guinevere as well and pretend like it might be enough.

“Arthur Pendragon,” Maleagant says evenly. His voice doesn’t waver and his hand remains steady as he raises the sword and lays the blade flat on Arthur’s left shoulder. “By Excalibur, I make you a knight of Britain.”

The boy blinks at him sluggishly slow. His eyes are weary and a little red, but there is a look of genuine, irritating _gratitude_ in them.

Maleagant isn’t finished yet. Almost, but not quite.

For his most treasured enemy, he chooses a different ritual, more complicated one that isn’t really used on the battlefield, but—

In this very moment the king of Britain is below him, won’t rise without his permission, and Maleagant lets himself savor it in full.

He lowers the sword on the ground between them, leans down to cradle Arthur’s face between his palms, then places a lingering kiss on his enemy’s cold, clammy forehead.

Maleagant doesn’t look at the knights, but he hears them all too clearly, their whispers of disgust with him and his little power play. Even louder are those of relief.

They sound so _glad_ that he chose to ignore their king’s offer, that he will never share his throne and his right to rule them all. They came here in numbers so scarce they couldn’t have won if not for the druid’s magic. They were ready to die for Arthur, this young foolish boy who did nothing to win their loyalty, had nothing but a dubious birthright and thrice-damned magical sword.

And yet they can’t _stand_ the thought of Maleagant wearing the crown. They never could. Four years ago these people were the first to discard his fair victory, deny him a trial by combat he would’ve won back then.

Maleagant hates it.

He hates it so much he can _feel_ the darkness in him growing. He feeds it with every bitter emotion he has, gives it power with jealousy, hurt and contempt until it spills out and poisons his blood, until he’s so full of it he can barely breathe.

He tightens his grip on Arthur’s face and meets his eyes.

He—all of them—relaxed way too early.

No matter what Maleagant does he can’t change their minds. He may act honorable and merciful or the exact opposite of that, they still would hate him and condemn him and expect the worst of him.

Why shouldn’t he give them just that?

No, Maleagant won’t leave without his victory, won’t abandon his throne for the promise of marriage he may not even see fulfilled.

He will take _everything_ now.

“I do,” he says to Arthur, close enough to feel his breath and loud enough for everyone to hear him, “accept the offer you made. To be your equal. Until death do us part.”

Maleagant lets his lips curl into a vicious and victorious smile.

Arthur doesn’t have the faintest idea of what’s going on, half-delirious and weak and barely keeping himself conscious. He just looks at Maleagant in confusion and smiles back, tentative and unsure, as if he thinks it might be an appropriate response.

His eyelashes tremble. A grimace of pain washes the smile away, his hand lets go of the wound and his body goes slack as he finally passes out.

He held on just enough.

Barely managing to react in time, Maleagant catches Arthur and lowers him to the ground with uncharacteristic gentleness. He doesn’t necessarily like it, but he _has_ to take care of what’s his.

Swiftly, he unties a piece of fabric wrapped around his wrist, then pushes it between the plates of Arthur’s armor to reach the wound. It’s not enough to keep him from bleeding to death, but it will buy them some time.

Not so long ago Maleagant craved to spill his enemy’s blood, but now that it stains his fingers, thick, dark and warm, it doesn’t bring him any pleasure.

He gives a signal for his warriors to come closer. They need to make sure his future spouse survives long enough to be wed. Maleagant can’t have him dying on the battlefield when he won’t even get satisfaction from that.

“Place him on a cart and tend to his wounds,” he orders sharply, catching the eye of Cynbel, one of the few whose loyalty he trusts. “We are done here. It’s time to retreat.”

He lets Cynbel and his ever-present partner Drest take Arthur’s unconscious body, perfectly assured they will be careful in their task. Then, he finally raises to his feet and turns towards the oddly silent knights.

They look at Maleagant exactly like he expected they would. Worried and angry, but above all so utterly helpless. There is nothing they can do to change the outcome, to fight the sacral power of the completed ritual.

It’s not marriage yet, but the _promise_ of it cannot be broken.

“If he dies…” Gawain says, his fingers curled into fists and his eyes ablaze with rage. “If you let him die, it will be your fault, his blood will be on your hands.”

It already _is_. Maleagant still feels its sticky warmth.

“And then you’ll have _nothing_, exactly like you deserve.”

Maleagant’s face twists in anger. A sudden flash of ire is so bright it almost _blinds_ him, almost makes him say things he’ll surely regret, and so he tries to tame it.

He breathes through his nose and smiles, slow, self-assured and completely fake.

“I know what his life is worth,” he says. “I’ll make sure he keeps it. At least until the Waiting Year is over.”

This isn’t a reassurance, it’s a _threat_. Payback for the insult, and Gawain is powerless to answer it with another blow. He can’t do anything to stop his wounded king from being taken to the foreign lands, to the realm of his most bitter enemy.

Maleagant’s smile fades, and he leans down to take Excalibur.

“I will take care of it as well,” he promises. He has no need for the famed sword, not anymore, but he’ll keep it until Arthur’s ready to wield it once again. “Of course, all of you are expected to attend the royal wedding. I’ll make sure you know the date. Until then…”

He waves his hand, dismissing the knights as if they were his servants. Soon enough it won’t be just wishful thinking, and whether they want it or not they _will_ obey him.

They do even now.

Maleagant turns on his heels and heads to the edge of the forest to where his people retreated. His steps are light and his smirk is sharp, but his heart feels unexpectedly heavy with an emotion he can’t manage to place.

He watches Cynbel and Drest put Arthur’s limp body on the cart, one of the few that survived Merlin’s fire.

He doesn’t like the sight of it.

Maleagant is acutely aware of the fact that Arthur is his responsibility now, that he _belongs_ to him now. Not in the way he could’ve ever imagined it happening, but there is something inexplicably captivating in the thought of owning his enemy fully.

He carefully pushes away the thought that it’s not ownership, but equality their union truly demands.

Maleagant stops before the cart to take a better look at Arthur. The boy’s face is contorted in pain, sickeningly pale and glistening with sweat, his lips are cracked and his breaths are wheezing and shallow. He looks _ugly_ like this. His helpless vulnerability makes Maleagant’s stomach churn in unease and disgust, and yet—

And yet he’s barely able to stifle the urge to reach out and touch him.

Maleagant can’t show even a hint of weakness. Arthur’s knights are still watching his every move, their gazes so sharp he half expects an arrow between his shoulder blades. An arrow or maybe a bolt of lighting or whatever Merlin has up his sleeves.

Maleagant is belatedly surprised the druid hasn’t interfered yet.

Perhaps even _he_ has no power to break the binding. After all, it was his people who created these unions in the first place, who approved them and made them final.

There is no going back then, and now— 

Now Maleagant has plenty of time to claim his prize, to have Arthur in every way he desires.

He’ll take _everything_ that was offered.


	2. Acceptance

Arthur’s consciousness returns to him torturously slow. He blinks a few times, trying to adjust to the light that feels painfully bright for his aching, watering eyes. His throat is parched, his muscles feel embarrassingly weak, and a dull ache spreads through his whole body like a deadly poison.

A soft, whimpering moan escapes his dry lips.

Arthur doesn’t know where he is. The stone arched ceiling is unfamiliar to him, the silky smooth covers feel foreign and wrong. Thick fog fills his head, making it hard to think, to search for a possible answer. He tries to remember where he was last, what happened before he passed out and—

“I see you’re finally awake,” he hears a familiar voice to his right.

Arthur stiffens. A vague apprehension settles in his gut, not fear, but close enough to make him feel on edge. He turns his head, carefully and slowly, wary of sharp movements.

Maleagant is sitting on a chair just a few feet away from the bed, his chin propped on his hand, and a look of sheer boredom written on his face. There is nothing hostile in his expression, no threat in his eyes, but Arthur is still acutely aware that he won’t be able to defend himself in such a pitiful state.

He wills himself to relax. He shouldn’t act rashly before he figures out what’s going on.

His memories are reluctant to come back, but they are clear enough. Arthur remembers the siege of Cameliard, his very first fight with the man who opposed him for so long, the wound he received from his blade. He remembers it being painful and deep, and that does explain the ache and the weakness he feels, but not why he’s here. Wherever he might be.

The victory was his, wasn’t it? 

He held Maleagant’s life in his hands and refused the last strike. Instead, he asked his most bitter enemy to knight him, to make them truly equal, and oddly that wasn’t denied.

Arthur lost consciousness shortly after, but—

Maleagant couldn’t have taken him prisoner. His defeat was final and fair, and no matter how rumors painted him, the prince of Gore showed himself an honorable man. He didn’t succumb to the temptation to take Arthur’s life, to thrust the blade into his throat instead of laying it down his shoulder.

This whole situation doesn’t make an ounce of sense.

“What—” Arthur begins, but a violent cough makes his whole body shake and sharp, agonizing pain blossoms in his left side.

He pushes his hand under the soft covers to press his palm to the wound, a little surprised to find there fresh and carefully placed bandages. Maleagant frowns at him in obvious displeasure, then nods at the goblet of water sitting on the bedside chest.

With a soft grunt, Arthur reaches to take it, and though his hands are trembling so badly that half of the water ends up on the covers, he still manages to make a few big gulps. Exhausted, he falls back on the pillows. The pain in his side doesn’t subside, it keeps pulsing through his body, making it difficult to focus, but as the minutes pass he slowly manages to relax.

Maleagant doesn’t take his eyes off him. His gaze is intense, and yet it is completely void of familiar and expected emotions, of hatred or rage or even mockery. Arthur can’t help but wonder if there is a reason behind it, if something has irrevocably changed while he was unconscious.

“What happened?” he asks weakly. “Where am I?”

A small frown settles between Maleagant’s eyebrows, a contemplative one as if he’s trying to decide if he should answer Arthur or keep the tension for a little bit longer. He leans back on the chair and steeples his fingers.

“You are in the guest rooms of my family’s castle in Gore,” he says, and Arthur feels like he should’ve guessed it already, but it still takes him by surprise. Unpleasant one at that. “As for what happened…”

Maleagant trails off, perhaps unsure how to explain all the things that led them here. Arthur has no energy to try and figure it out on his own, he just waits for an answer with uncharacteristic patience. He watches Maleagant’s features soften in thought, and it’s odd how startlingly different it makes him look, almost— beautiful. 

It’s not the thought Arthur ever expected to have.

But this isn’t even the first time it comes to him, he realizes belatedly, as another memory, hazy and dreamlike, emerges in his mind. Of the gentle touch of Maleagant’s fingers, of his eyes, bright and gleaming with unnamed emotion, of his smile, genuine and wide. Arthur remembers feeling completely disoriented by it, barely registering the words that were said…

Something about equality, about an offer being accepted.

What was that about?

“You must know that British lands could never be called vast,” Maleagant begins, his voice quiet and even, and it seems like his story might be a long one. “And yet there was a time there were dozens of kingdoms on the isles, and no High-King to settle their disputes.”

Arthur exhales and tiredly closes his eyes. A small part of him is annoyed at the stalling, impatient to hear his true answer instead of a history lesson, but it’s too weak to make him voice his displeasure. Besides, there is something soothing in Maleagant’s voice now, the lack of mockery and derision makes it just as pleasant as his features are.

“Before the expansion of Rome, before they made us their colony and brought their own rules, before the Saxons were even heard of, things were different. Our lands have never been particularly fertile, and while the cattle bred well, people did too. Even the constant squabbles between the kingdoms never resulted in enough loss to make any difference. The kings held to their lands tightly, desperate to keep the resources that got more scarce with each passing year.”

“Eventually, they refused to marry their daughters. No one wanted more mouths to feed, and even greater seemed the risk of the rival’s line one day inheriting their kingdoms. Those who were smarter saw clearly where this was leading. Britain was _weak_, separated like this, and the enemy was already looming ahead. This was when the proposal was made, to allow the union between two men, the one that won’t result in children, but would allow to join resources and share everything as true equals.” 

The last word makes Arthur frown, and a faint, perhaps unfounded suspicion arises in his mind.

He swallows hard.

“This wasn’t terribly popular to begin with,” Maleagant continues. “And after all the losses Britain suffered, traditional marriages became favored once again. Still, those unions were never officially discarded, never lost their sacred meaning the druids’ approval gave them.” 

He pauses for a few moments, and Arthur can feel the heaviness of his gaze.

He has no desire to face it.

There is no doubt left in him about where this is going, he simply refuses to accept it until Maleagant confirms his sentence and makes the judgment final.

“As was deemed fitting for the unions of such importance, an official offer—the proposal—had to be formal and binding. It’s quite amusing how much power can words have.”

Maleagant chuckles, quiet and soft, without even a hint of malice. It seems like he’s genuinely amused by the sheer absurdity of their situation and doesn’t simply mock Arthur’s poor choices. 

“Make me your equal,” he says. “Those are the words. To ignore them equals dishonor.”

“For you?” Arthur asks, finally turning his head to look at Maleagant. 

He already knows the answer. No matter how powerful the phrase is, it can’t entrap a person who did nothing, but it _can_ bind an ignorant fool who unknowingly offered something he wasn’t ready to give. 

Maleagant’s eyes are feverishly bright, a hint of a smile touches his lips for a moment before it disappears completely. He looks conflicted, much as Arthur feels.

“For you,” Maleagant corrects. “I could’ve refused. In fact, I was going to.”

It doesn’t sound like a lie.He didn’t simply accept Arthur’s offer, he _knighted_ him first, took his foolish words for what they truly were, so _why_ did he change his mind?

Why would Maleagant even want him?

Arthur asks the same question aloud, and Maleagant’s face visibly hardens, anger flares bright in his eyes.

“I don’t,” he spits, his fingers squeezing the armrests, “want you.”

He seems almost nauseated by the thought, offended by the mere suggestion, and Arthur doesn’t want to admit it, but it stings his pride, foolish as it may be. It’s not like he would ever wish for… that.

Whatever fate awaits him now.

“I want the throne,” Maleagant continues. “The one I deserved and won in a fair fight, the one I would’ve had if not for you and your druid.” His nostrils flare as he takes a deep breath, visibly trying to calm down and let go of his rage. “You offered it to me. How could I say no?”

Somehow, Arthur doesn’t believe him.

He isn’t sure why. He knows all too well how desperately Maleagant wanted to win the crown, to take his place on the throne of Britain, but— 

It’s hard to imagine him being content to share it, to take it not in battle, but because of his enemy’s foolish mistake. Wasn’t he searching for glory? For people’s acceptance?

But then, what Arthur can possibly know of his dreams and ambitions? What can he possibly know of this man who he met only a handful of times in his life? This man who will soon be his… partner? Husband?

“What does it mean for us?” he asks quietly. “The… that union, is it like marriage?”

“It is marriage,” Maleagant’s voice once again sounds unpleasantly sharp, his expressive face turns harsh and almost cruel, but it softens after a moment as if some afterthought makes him pause.

For a little while he simply looks at Arthur, curious and searching, then asks perhaps the least expected thing, “Do you not enjoy the company of men?”

“I—” Arthur blinks at him dumbly, wets his lips and tries again. “I do. I guess.”

Meleagant’s brows arch in a silent question and Arthur cringes. He never actually bedded a man before, but it’s not like he thinks the idea repulsive. Far from it, he often entertained such fantasies and found himself willing to bring them to life, he just doesn’t think it’s appropriate to mention this right now.

Besides, he’s certainly not ready to think of Maleagant this way.

Arthur bites the inside of his mouth, barely stifling the curse. He doesn’t know what to do and how to act, he feels so lost and incredibly confused. It hasn’t sunk in yet, the fact that he will have to tie his life to the man he used to consider his only true enemy. 

Arthur hasn’t even thought of marriage before. Perhaps he _should’ve_ when he took the crown, when it became obvious that sooner rather than later he’ll have to make alliances. With war looming ahead, a political marriage might be necessary to unite the kingdom, and love in those things never mattered half as much as potential benefits did.

A union with Gore is certainly a beneficial one.

Arthur fights the urge to hide his face in his palms. 

Maleagant is thankfully, mercifully silent. He doesn’t even look at him, his gaze turned to the windows, and for a moment Arthur allows himself to simply watch him.

Oddly, it feels like he’s seeing him for the first time. Maleagant’s face is angular and sharp, his cheekbones are high, his glossy dark curls seem alluringly soft, and he’s an undeniably beautiful man, gifted with sort of exotic looks that are hard to ignore.

Admission of that feels different now when there is a possibility—no, certainty—of marriage, and yet Arthur is neither ashamed nor bothered by it. It’s not the looks he should worry about, his husband-to-be could be the prettiest or the ugliest person in the whole of Britain, it is his _nature_ that matters truly.

Arthur heard about it plenty. He heard that the prince of Gore is arrogant and cruel, that he’s prone to anger and punishes severely those who slight him. He heard that he’s not a good man and cannot be trusted, that he has no honor and would weasel his way out of every trouble and turn it to his gain.

That is exactly what he _did_, and yet Arthur isn’t foolish enough to believe every word he hears, especially those that come from the mouths of people who so clearly detest Maleagant. Even if they do have their reasons for that. Arthur knows firsthand that the prince of Gore is not a gracious winner, that he’s perfectly capable of mocking and openly humiliating a defeated foe, and yet—

And yet it’s not enough to condemn him, to call him a terrible person and treat him like an enemy still, for surely they are past that now. The reality of it feels foreign to him, but it’s far easier to accept that he would’ve thought.

For years Maleagant remained his rival, the biggest threat to his rule, but they haven’t even met until recently, hadn’t shared but a few scathing words.

Arthur couldn’t make himself loathe a mere image of the man, no matter how he was portrayed in rumors, and the person he gets to know now seems complicated and not entirely pleasant, but still not deserving the hatred.

“Meleagant,” he calls a moment later, for the very first time saying the name aloud. It rolls off his tongue, easy and smooth, leaving an almost pleasantly bitter aftertaste.

Meleagant turns to him, once again collected and calm. He looks tired, perhaps, of their talk, of their whole situation or the time he spent by his bed.

“What is it?”

“All those years ago, if it were up to me I wouldn’t have questioned your right for the throne.” It is the _truth_, the one that’s easy to admit, although Arthur isn’t sure it’ll win him any favors. “But it wasn’t, and now I simply can’t give up the throne. I am the king and my country needs me.”

It’s not his personal feelings of marriage that bother him truly, just the things so much bigger than that, the fate of their realm that _needs_ to be strong, and he can’t let Maleagant—

He can’t stop him either.

What’s left to him is to control the damage.

Maleagant winces as if the words pain him, as if he’s hurt by Arthur’s accusation even if it wasn’t intended as such.

He takes a few moments before he answers.

“I’m not taking the throne from you no matter how much I would wish to,” he says. “I can’t. You haven’t given me the crown, only the right to take you as my husband, to share everything you have. Equality goes both ways. After we’re married… you will have everything that’s mine. Which, in case you’re wondering, is not that much.”

His lips twitch in a weak attempt of a smile, a mockery that isn’t at Arthur’s expense. There is bitterness in Maleagant’s voice, a feeling too close to longing, and that simply doesn’t make any _sense_.

Surely his desire for power can’t be that great, can’t _torture_ him so.

“I’m not a villain, Arthur,” Maleagant says, but it sounds like he barely believes it himself. “I do care about our realm.”

Arthur simply nods. He doesn’t question it, not aloud and not in his mind.

He has no doubt that Maleagant would prefer a sole rule, for Arthur to die on that battlefield, succumbing to the wound that still aches deeply, but when he agreed to this union he trapped himself just as surely.

It’s in the interest of them both to somehow make this work. 

Gingerly, Arthur props himself up on pillows, ignoring yet another stab of pain, and squarely meets Maleagant’s gaze.

“I won’t back away,” he says with all the conviction he can muster. “I know I can’t, but I hope it still means something that I… I will own up to my mistakes. I will marry you and I will share everything with you. I promise you that.”

This time, he makes a vow of his own accord, because he _refuses_ to fight the battle that can be avoided.

He _hopes_ it can be.

Maleagant looks back at Arthur, silent and still, his face a stone mask. It softens a moment later, relaxes to a sort of disinterested neutrality as he slowly lowers his head.

“I’ll take you up on that,” he says.

He pushes himself to his feet and gives Arthur a quick once-over, frowning in a faint concern.

“I’ll tell the kitchens to make you something light,” he adds. “And do take care of yourself, I won’t have you dying on me before our marriage is secure. Now rest. I will be back shortly.”

Taking a few swift steps towards the bed, he leans down to place a short, chaste kiss on Arthur’s forehead.

Arthur can barely hold back a shudder. The gesture feels so out of place, too intimate and faintly indulgent, but... It's not entirely unpleasant. Maleagant’s lips are cool and dry and for a brief moment his hair brushes Arthur’s cheek, exactly as soft as he imagined. He thinks he catches the faintest smell of wormwood.

There are so many ways he can interpret that kiss, but he chooses the most optimistic option, the most likely one too. He sees in it a subtle reminder of the power Maleagant holds over him now, but more than that, an offering of peace.

A sign of being willing to deal together with how their lives changed.

For better or for worse, Arthur cannot tell, but there is an odd sense of calmness that settles over him, that pushes away his worries and fears and lingering distrust. He’s sure they won’t leave forever, that it’ll take time to fully comprehend all of the changes, but— 

By now, he should be used to the sharp turns of fate.

Arthur lost his enemy today and possibly gained a partner, a person who will stand by his side, no matter the reasons. The thought brings him an unexpected relief. 

He silently watches Maleagant leave the rooms, his back straight, his steps light and sure. When the door closes behind him, Arthur sags on the pillows, closes his eyes and stops thinking about anything at all.

Just for a little while.

After all, he was ordered to rest, and he suspects he’ll need all the energy he can spare.


	3. Sickbed

Maleagant’s fingers are aching and numb from the freezing-cold water, but he tries to ignore the feeling. Wringing out the wet cloth, he folds it twice, then carefully places it on Arthur’s forehead. 

It won’t be long until it’s warm again from the heat that radiates from Arthur’s body. The very same heat that threatens to boil his insides if it doesn’t subside.

Arthur’s awake, although it can barely be called that. His eyes are bloodshot and cloudy, his lips are cracked and covered with a whitish-grey film. He isn't lucid. He doesn't recognize Maleagant, doesn’t notice his presence at all, lost in whatever illusion his sickness conjures. 

Perhaps, he’s happier there.

Maleagant is familiar with sickness, with the rotten breath of death. He remembers it all too vividly, no matter how many years have passed since he, a boy of merely six, spent nights and days at his dying mother’s bedside. It took a whole month for her to finally give up a fight, to succumb to fever, blood loss, and infection.

She too didn’t recognize him half of the time. She too seemed to be happier in that place where gods took her. 

But Arthur isn’t going to die. Maleagant won’t _let_ him.

He will air out the rooms until nothing reminds him of death, not even the sour sickly smell of sweat or the bitter, poisonous one of the festering wound.

He knows the chances well, read plenty of books and questioned the court physician until the man lost his temper. Wounds like this are often fatal, but Arthur is young and strong in body and spirit both. He has his whole life ahead of him, he _has_ to make it.

Maleagant will believe it, will _fight_ for it with everything he has. 

Fate has a truly terrible sense of humor, and he won’t be surprised if it’s already planning on taking away from him the only thing he _needs _now_. _The thing he foolishly thought was already his. 

A few weeks ago Maleagant would have given anything to see his enemy’s death, but now it will cost him the last of what he managed to salvage. But then, if there is anything stronger than fate’s hatred towards him, it is its love for Arthur. 

Maleagant will cling to that thought. 

He forces himself to turn his attention back to Arthur. He’s still looking through Maleagant, blinking sluggish and slow as if his eyelids feel heavy as stone, but for the briefest of moments, his gaze seems to focus. The corners of his eyes crinkle and his lips tremble in a weak and futile attempt to form a smile.

Maleagant winces. It gets under his skin, the fact that even in this delirious state Arthur seems to subconsciously _trust _him. He acts like the sight of his once bitter enemy at his bedside is nothing to worry about, like Maleagant is simply _incapable_ of striking him when he’s weak.

_He_ barely believes it.

A soft exhale escapes Arthur’s lips. His eyes close, his head gently rolls to the side, and his breaths gradually grow even and deep. It seems like even the briefest moment of clarity put too much strain on his weakened body, but at least he is finally asleep. Maleagant spent long enough by his side to be sure of it, and relief that fills his heart is almost palpable. 

Healthy sleep is the best they could hope for right now. If Arthur’s lucky, if both of them are, the fever will lose its hold enough to allow him to heal, and when he wakes up next time, he will be lucid.

Maleagant takes away the already warmed cloth, then leans down to press his lips to Arthur’s forehead, vaguely irked at how familiar he became with that gesture, necessary as it might be. The boy’s skin is still worryingly hot to touch, but— 

It’s possible that Maleagant is simply fooling himself, but it seems like the fever _is_ going down, just enough to fight the sickness instead of making it worse. At least it _should_ be so according to the roman physician whom king Bagdemagus employed some ten years ago. The man may be old as Rome itself and blind as a bat, but his knowledge of the human body remains unparalleled to this day. 

Despite the fact that he vehemently refused to come to Gore himself, his written advice has been most helpful. It has also been the only thing Maleagant could trust when all of the servants seemed to be annoyingly incompetent at their jobs. Enough that he had to make it his duty to tend to his most precious patient. 

There is no way he can allow even the barest possibility of Arthur not making it. 

A soft, breathy moan catches Maleagant’s attention. In his sleep, Arthur managed to roll on his side, throwing off the covers and exposing himself to the chill air, and it seems like his wound started bleeding anew, dark red already seeping through the bandages.

Maleagant will have to change them soon, and though he’s been getting decidedly better at the task, he’d rather wait until Arthur is awake. No matter how inevitably awkward it’s going to be.

Mildly annoyed at both Arthur and his weakened state, Maleagant rubs his temples, trying to ward off first creeping tendrils of pain. It doesn’t feel like it’s going to be anything worse than a tension headache, but the promise of it is still mighty unpleasant.

With a sigh, Maleagant reaches for the furs to cover Arthur properly, to ensure he’s warm and at least passably comfortable. No one would blame him for not caring about his future husband’s well-being, not when he spends days and nights at his bedside, sometimes forgetting to eat and barely having enough time to sleep. 

A few days ago Maleagant caught some of the servants gossiping that he’s been looking sick lately. He certainly _feels_ sick, and in moments like this, when he’s exhausted, irritated and pained, he laments how precise his strike was. 

What all his talents worth if they didn’t bring him victory? 

Leaning back in his chair, Maleagant eyes the book he put down earlier, tempted to continue his readings, yet wary of making his headache worse. In the end, he decides not to risk it. He closes his eyes, tired and itchy from another sleepless night, and wills himself to relax. 

He doesn’t plan on falling asleep, but when exhaustion overcomes him, he makes no effort to fight it. Reality blurs and fades into darkness…

A part of him knows that what comes next is a dream, a memory, changed and remodeled. His very own feverish delusion.

He sees Arthur once again lowering himself to one knee, but this time his eyes are clear and void of pain. They gleam with light, boyish mirth as if what’s happening is nothing but a shared joke, an act for the witnesses, and everything is decided and clear between them.

“Make me your equal,” Arthur says. His sword is sheathed, and the only title he earns for is that of a _husband_.

Maleagant shakes his head, fighting a smile, and still he—the _dream_ he, delirious and foolish—doesn't even consider refusing. 

“I accept your offer,” he says the required words. He offers his hand to help Arthur stand, unable to tear his gaze away from his gentle and sincere eyes, from his soft, so temptingly inviting mouth. 

In the dream, Maleagant doesn’t feel its taste.

“Maleagant.”

There is a voice that doesn’t belong, a touch of dry hot fingers on the back of his hand that jerks him awake, chases away the illusion he was caught in. Everything that’s left he pushes down to the farthest corner of his mind to never visit it again. 

He blinks a few times to clear his vision. Unsurprisingly, it is Arthur who disturbed his sleep. He seems to be completely lucid, much as Maleagant hoped, still visibly exhausted and perhaps a little guilty. 

Behind the windows, the sky is colored in reddish golds of the sunset. Maleagant thought he nodded off only for a few minutes, but it looks like he spent half of the day curled in his chair, and he most certainly _feels_ it. Wincing from the pain that shoots down his spine the moment he tries to straighten up, he raises his hand to massage the back of his neck.

The guilt sparkles brighter in Arthur’s eyes, and perhaps Maleagant could take some comfort in it, but it won’t be enough to soothe his annoyance. He chooses to ignore it altogether. 

“How much time has passed?” Arthur asks quietly.

Maleagant’s mouth tightens into a thin line. He isn’t sure how to answer this question, not when he’s not exactly aware _when_ the boy was lucid last time. 

“It’s been four days since our last talk,” he says. 

A worried frown settles between Arthur’s eyebrows. He pulls down the furs to look at the bandages around his torso, stained with reddish-brown blood. It doesn’t look half as bad as Maleagant feared, the bleeding must’ve stopped on his own, and still— 

It won’t do to leave it like that.

“Don’t touch,” Maleagant orders when he notices Arthur reaching to press his palm to the wound. 

The boy complies, biting his lip in obvious pain. Maleagant catches the gesture despite himself, watches it for a moment too long before averting his eyes.

He rises to his feet and squares his shoulders, trying to get rid of the lingering tension. That was the second time in these past four days he fell asleep in a chair, and he’s not that young anymore to simply shrug it off. 

Maleagant eyes the basin of water and a bundle of fresh bandages that the servants seem to have left near the fireplace while he was asleep. He’s not exactly eager to start redressing Arthur’s wound, but it has to be done sooner rather than later. Then he’ll need to bring the boy something a little more substantial than liquid porridge or broth.

Ignoring the curious gaze on his back, Maleagant brings the basin and the bandages closer to the bed and places them on the top of the chest. He rolls his sleeves up and stills for a moment, unsure how to proceed further. For all that he hoped Arthur would be awake for the task, he’s certainly not _used_ to it.

“I think you’d better sit up,” Maleagant says, raising his eyes to meet Arthur’s. “Carefully, though.”

The boy simply nods. 

He _tries_ to push himself to a sitting position, but his arms keep trembling and the strain must be too much for him to go on. With a sign, Maleagant takes a step closer and wraps his arm around Arthur’s shoulders to gingerly help him up.

The touch seems too personal, too uncomfortably intimate. He thought he got used to it over the course of the past few weeks, and yet it feels so startlingly _different_ when his patient is no longer unconscious. Maleagant is distinctly aware of every part of Arthur’s body, of the heat of his skin and his scent, sour from sweat and bitter from herbal balms. 

It’s overwhelming and suffocating, and Maleagant _hates_ it. 

“Thank you,” Arthur exhales.

Maleagant doesn’t deign to answer. Instead, he takes the cloth he used to bring the fever down and leaves it soaking in still warm water, then lowers himself onto the edge of the bed. He doesn’t look at Arthur’s face, his attention focused solely on the bandages covering his torso. Deftly untangling the knots, he lets the first layers come off, careful not to tug on those that are stuck to the skin. 

“You know, I was lucky to never suffer serious injury before,” Arthur says quietly, slightly raising his hands to allow Maleagant better access to the bandages. “I’ve been fighting for five years now and never got anything worse than a scrape. You can’t imagine how many times I’ve been told that gods must favor me, but I think…”

He bites his tongue, hissing when Maleagant none too gently presses the wet cloth to the edges of the wound in hope to ease the process. It isn’t cold, nor should it be terribly painful, but the boy’s stomach still quivers under Maleagant’s touch. 

“I think,” Arthur repeats stubbornly, even though it’s clear it’s hard for him to go on, “I just hadn’t met a worthy opponent, and I—”

“Do me a favor,” Maleagant interrupts, feeling annoyed by the blatant flattery. “Shut up.”

It doesn’t matter what Arthur thinks. It doesn’t matter that Maleagant may have truly been the most skilled of his adversaries. It cannot change the fact that this foolish boy _is_ beloved by gods or fate itself or maybe even that Christian deity some people seem to pray these days.

If not for that, he wouldn’t have taken so easily all those things that others had to fight for, give everything they had for and still fail.

Arthur has the throne, but more than that, he has people’s love and respect, and what has he _done_ to gain those? Has been born? Has been chosen by some ancient magic that makes no damned sense?

Perhaps it was the first time his luck ran out, perhaps it won’t be the last. Maleagant promised to share _everything_ with his husband, to give him all and take all in turn, so maybe they will balance each other. 

Maybe Maleagant will drag Arthur down to the deepest pit of his misfortune. 

At least he won’t be alone there any longer. 

The last of the bandages finally come off, pooling in a messy heap amongst the furs, and Maleagant pauses for a moment to examine the wound. There is some clear liquid oozing from its edges, and the skin around it is puffy and red, but at least the stitches seem intact. There is no smell of infection coming from it either, and that is definitely a good sign.

Maleagant takes a fresh cloth to gently wipe away remaining blood, careful not to bring any unnecessary pain. Arthur is silent, but his breaths grow quicker and his body still trembles from every touch. He lost both weight and strength during the past weeks, he’s sickly pale and not terribly clean, and yet— 

Without interrupting his task, Maleagant lets his eyes wander. He takes in the sight of Arthur’s body, his skin, smooth and unmarred by scars, the slight softness of his belly and dark wiry hair covering his broad chest. Even on a sickbed, he looks unfairly attractive, and it’s not exactly the first time Maleagant acknowledged this, but now he’s almost tempted to take the thought further. 

If their history were different, if Arthur hadn’t become his enemy Maleagant would’ve agreed to bed him without a second thought. _Now_ they are to be married, and by the boy’s own admission, he isn’t opposed to the company of men.

Maleagant wonders if Arthur took thought of marital duties, if he allowed himself to picture intimacy between them and whether it filled him with anticipation or disgust or maybe both.

Arthur swallows heavily as if he somehow knows the direction Maleagant’s thoughts have taken, their dangerous path that won’t lead to anything good. 

Pulling his eyebrows together and pressing his lips into a tight line, Maleagant finally makes himself reach for the fresh bandages.

“Maleagant,” Arthur calls, his voice quiet and slightly hoarse. 

Maleagant startles. He’s still not used to hearing his name from his former enemy’s lips. In truth, he never liked hearing it at all. More often than not it sounded too cold, like a curse or an accusation, but somehow on Arthur’s tongue it seems to soften and smoothen to something resembling a caress.

Maleagant doesn’t try to fool himself, there is not much sympathy between them, not much _anything_ at this point. And while he doesn’t consciously wish for it to change, somewhere deep in his soul, in that dark corner where he locked all of his shameful dreams, he longs for connection, to simply be liked, even if by the person he used to resent.

He stills himself before he can touch Arthur and lowers the bandages.

“What is it?” he asks.

Arthur simply looks at him, his gaze soft and weary. There are dark circles lying under his eyes, and the rich brown of them seems almost black. Maleagant’s mouth pulls tight. He feels oddly defensive, even though he wasn’t accused of anything yet. 

“Why do you care so much?” Arthur asks in genuine wonder. “This—”

He vaguely gestures at the wound, at Maleagant’s presence by his side. It’s not hard to figure out that he must’ve spent a lot of time here, and it would be foolish to pretend he _doesn’t_ care, even if that’s exactly what he wants to do. 

Averting his gaze, Maleagant presses the cloth to Arthur’s skin, holding it gently with his fingertips. He’s adept at this by now, had plenty of practice before when he wasn’t so lucky to never suffer a deep wound.

“Hold it,” he commands.

Arthur obeys, but he _looks_ at him still, patiently waiting for an answer. Maleagant wonders if that’s the person he is, calm and collected despite his youth, unfailingly patient and understanding. Too trusting.

It doesn’t feel like the whole truth when he heard plenty of rumors of the king’s stubbornness and his bad temper, his foolish recklessness and brashness, and yet what Maleagant sees now must be no less real. Five years of hatred and he admits he doesn’t know Arthur at all, can’t even guess if this first, tentative impression of him is correct, if there is something in him that’s rotten or if his soul is truly just as pure as Excalibur deemed.

Maleagant shifts a little closer to Arthur to wrap the first layer of bandages around his body, then twists the fabric and makes another loop. There is barely any space left between them, and when the boy’s breaths turn faster and more shallow, it’s clear that it isn’t from pain. Perhaps he’s just as uncomfortable with their closeness as Maleagant is. Perhaps even more so when he didn’t have any time to get used to it. 

“There is a stipulation,” Maleagant answers at last. He doesn’t _want_ to, but at least it serves to distract him from his most unwelcome thoughts. “The Waiting Year.”

“The Waiting Year,” Arthur echoes. “What does it mean?”

“It _means_ that if you die during a year after the offer was made, our marriage is null and void,” Maleagant’s fingers continue working on changing bandages, and he doesn’t raise his head. “You know what I want. I will do anything to keep the throne, and so I _need_ you in good health. At least for a year.” 

“At least,” Arthur repeats, his voice unusually flat.

Maleagant applies the last layer of bandages, tightens the knot with a little too much force, and then finally meets Arthur’s eyes. There is no accusation in the boy’s gaze, just a faint curiosity and quiet contemplation as if he, too, tries to figure out what kind of person his husband-to-be is. 

How _noble_ of him to wait before making a judgment. 

“It was considered that a year should be enough for a couple to resolve all the lingering issues and learn to coexist,” he says. “I suppose we’ll see how that goes.” 

He smirks, unpleasant and bitter, wishing to show how little he thinks of a possibility of it ever working out between them. Wishing to _lie_, for it is nothing but a facade, his last attempt to hide his weakness.

Maleagant doesn’t want Arthur’s death, not anymore, no matter what he led his knights to believe. There is no glory in a victory that tastes so vile. He should’ve gained it in a fair battle, he should've _won_ the crown and not steal it. He can’t stab Arthur in the back and break his trust, no matter how utterly foolish it is. 

He won’t lower himself like that.

“I suppose we will,” Arthur says, his gaze still calm as if he sees right through him.

It’s not an entirely unpleasant thought.

Too many years Maleagant spent battling fate, chasing a life that would finally satisfy him. No matter what he did, what victories he gained, it never felt enough and, in the end, he convinced himself that only the highest prize could change it.

He’s never been completely blind to his faults. He recognizes that the throne became his obsession, and while he truly believes himself worthy, his fate unfair and cruel, he does regret that in consumed him whole.

He lost the few friends he had, alienated them in his hurt and constant, all-consuming dissatisfaction. He sacrificed everything for his goal and now— 

Now he reached it. Not quite in the way he imagined, but he won’t have another try. 

This leaves him with an empty void he doesn’t know how to fill. A part of him urges him not to give up, to fight, but for what? Arthur’s not his enemy now. Soon he will become the closest, the most important person in his life. 

It’s better if he is capable of seeing Maleagant for who he is.

Maleagant rubs his temples. His thoughts are in disarray and they refuse to make much sense. The lack of sleep must be getting to him, and he hopes against hope that Arthur _is_ getting better and won’t need that much personal attention anymore. 

Pushing himself to his feet, Maleagant leans down to cover Arthur with the furs, the action so familiar he forgets to mind that the boy’s awake now. 

Arthur blinks at him, startled, then smiles in faint amusement. He catches Maleagant’s hand for a brief moment and squeezes it tightly. 

“Thank you,” he says. “For your care. Whatever is the reason behind it.”

Maleagant holds his gaze, then simply nods, accepting the gratitude. He brushes the hair from Arthur’s forehead, checking a fever, then gently helps him lean back on the pillows.

“Do you need anything?” he asks.

Arthur shakes his head. “Not right now. Although…”

“What?” Stepping away from the bed, Maleagant lowers himself on the edge of his chair. 

Arthur doesn’t answer right away. He raises his eyes to the ceiling and licks his lips.

“Can you tell me something?” he sounds unsure. “Anything at all, you seem like… you seem to know a lot.”

Maleagant’s lips twitch in bewildered amusement.

“Do you,” he asks slowly, “want me to tell you a bedtime story?”

Arthur winces, unable to hide his embarrassment. He does look awfully young at this moment, so maybe his request _is_ perfectly fitting. 

“Will you?” he dares to cast a quick, shy gaze at Maleagant.

Maleagant stifles a sigh. He thinks of the book he read earlier, a collection of Greek myths he knows by heart, and it’s unlikely that Arthur is familiar with any of them. There might be a few he’d find interesting. 

“All right,” he says, making himself a little more comfortable in his chair. He pauses for a moment, then begins: “You may not know that, but the Greeks believe that their gods are not that different from mortals, that they laugh and grieve and fall in love.”

Arthur lowers his eyelashes, a small smile playing on his lips. If he has any complaints about the story, he doesn’t voice them. 

Maleagant takes a deep breath, closes his eyes to better picture the flow of his tale. He wants to tell it as he feels it, to share it with his quiet, grateful listener, to fill the silence and chase away confusing thoughts.

“One day, Hades, the God of the Underworld, fell in love with young Persephone…”

There is no chasing away the question of whether his story—their story—will have its impossible happy ending.


	4. Father

Arthur blinks at the ceiling, feeling bored out of his mind. He tried to read, but he has never been able to enjoy a written story. His father— _ Sir Antor _ used to scold him for his complete inability to study long enough to actually learn something, but it was just— It was easier for him to gain knowledge not from books, but from people. 

He finds that he misses the stories Maleagant tells him almost every evening, be that the Greek myths or the old Irish tales his mother taught him. _ Those _ Arthur cherishes especially deeply, for they are the most intimate of memories shared, a sign of— not trust, but at least willingness to get to know each other better.

It’s what he wanted after all, a chance to discover what kind of person his future husband is. If he’s just as cold and cruel and unyielding in personal matters as he’s on the battlefield. If his arrogance robbed him of any semblance of compassion, if he’s prone to anger and too easy to rile, if he’s— a bad man. 

He’s _ not_.

Gingerly shifting on the bed, wary of disturbing his wound, Arthur tugs the furs up to his chin and closes his eyes. He wishes his thoughts were clearer, but even if his mind is still foggy from lingering fever, even if the dull ache in his body remains terribly distracting, he doesn’t have the faintest of doubts that in truth Maleagant is far from being a terrible person. 

He is… complicated, that much is true, arrogant and occasionally dismissive, but that’s not _ everything _ he is. He’s perfectly capable of being caring and attentive, and while he may have a vested interest in seeing to Arthur’s health, there is certainly no obligation on his part to _ entertain _ him. And then, sometimes even his arrogance seems to soften to something resembling a gentle indulgence, and maybe it could be considered degrading by some, but— 

Arthur can’t help but _ like _ it. It makes him feel weirdly… cared for, by someone older and more educated, by someone who knows life better and doesn’t mind taking the role of a guide. 

In a way, that’s what Arthur sought from Merlin, and while it wasn’t exactly denied, what the druid truly wanted was to make him into a king. He wanted him to _ rule_, to seek advice but not the guidance, to command help but not need it.

Arthur _ knows _ these are the things he needs to learn, and yet— Sometimes he feels so awfully tired. He was never meant to be a king, he hasn’t received a proper education, he’s only _ twenty _ . Most men his age aren’t even considered old enough to be knighted, while _ he _ is entrusted with the fate of whole Britain, the burden so heavy he’s not sure how to shoulder it. 

He doesn’t intend to run from his responsibilities, he’s willing to do anything not to let his people down, but it’s… It’s oddly reassuring that Maleagant thinks so little of him he can’t be disappointed. If he expects Arthur to fail, maybe he won’t _ let _ him. 

Arthur huffs a laugh, wincing from the pain that shoots through his side. The thought sounds kind of pathetic even in his head, but that doesn’t make it any less true. 

It also doesn’t cheapen the fact that Arthur simply _ likes _ Maleagant. 

His cleverness and his wit, the way he can be so _ charming _ when he wishes to, the way his eyes crinkle when he smiles— And, truly, this man has one of the most beautiful smiles Arthur has ever seen. It changes his face completely, it makes it so easy to believe that maybe Maleagant’s coldness, his bitterness and his rage, are— not just a mask, not really, but those things he deliberately pushes to the surface, for they are easier to show than his gentler side. 

Arthur pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs deeply. It’s possible that he’s simply reaching, attempting to reassure himself his situation isn’t hopeless, but even if he’s wrong in some of his assumptions, it’s not like being fond of his husband-to-be is such a terrible thing. It could be the _ opposite _ of it, if only— 

If only it were mutual. 

Arthur doesn’t necessarily believe that Maleagant hates or even actively dislikes him. If it were true, it’s highly unlikely he would be half as indulgent to Arthur’s whims, nor would he gift him with rare yet very much real moments of tenderness, but at the same time…

The worst thing Arthur has ever suffered because of Maleagant is the wound he’s healing from now, and though it hurts something awful, in time it will pass and there’ll be nothing but a scar left. 

It may have stung that Maleagant so vehemently denied Arthur’s right to the throne, but in truth he was perfectly justified in his doubts. Five years ago, Arthur was just a foolish boy with poor education and subpar skills in pretty much everything from tactics to swordplay, and even his birthright wasn’t proven by anything but Merlin’s word. He _ gets _ why Maleagant thought him undeserving the crown. 

In the end, it isn’t hard for Arthur to let go of everything that went wrong between them, and he has never been a hateful person, but Maleagant— 

Maleagant, who’s prideful and high-strung and easily hurt, suffered what he probably considered an utter humiliation because of Arthur, and while their marriage will grant him the very thing he wanted, it’s still a _ compromise_. It’s all too obvious he’s not the kind of person to be satisfied by meeting halfway, by anything that isn’t absolute perfection, and Arthur fears that he is and always will be a constant reminder of what Maleagant perceives as half victory at best and failure at worst.

This isn’t the end of the world. Arthur _ is _ genuinely happy he’s capable of finding the things he likes in his husband-to-be, for it’s certainly better than detesting him for the rest of their lives, it’s just— 

Foolishly, he wishes to be liked in turn. 

There are times when Arthur allows himself to wonder how things could’ve been between them if he were raised at Uther’s court as his rightful heir, if there were no tournament and no reason for Maleagant to doubt his claim, but then— 

Then, there would be no marriage at all, no Arthur the way he is now, the way his life shaped him for better or for worse, and in the end he never lets those dreams linger, discards them before they truly form. 

A loud knock at the door interrupts his thoughts, repetitive in the sheer boredom of his days. It makes him startle and tense up despite himself because servants never visit him at this time of the day and Maleagant simply doesn’t knock. Perhaps this is his way to remind Arthur he’s at his mercy here, but, frankly, the thought of it isn’t discomfiting in the slightest.

“Come in,” Arthur raises his voice just enough to be heard. 

With a wince, he props himself up on the pillows, ignoring the faint ache in his side and pathetic trembling of his weakened body. He must look like a mess, even if servants make sure he stays more or less presentable these days. 

While trimming of his hair and beard and regular cloth baths feel a little humiliating, it makes him feel a little more like himself, so he tries not to complain. He tells himself it’s high time he gets used to being served like a king or at least a noble, but if five years of ruling didn’t change his habit to do pretty much everything by himself, he’s not sure one injury, no matter how severe, will.

The door opens with a creak, and Arthur squints in an attempt to make out the features of his visitor. It’s a man, tall and broad-shouldered, his back is straight and his posture regal, but his temples and beard are touched with silver, and his wind-worn face is etched with deep lines. He doesn’t look much like Maleagant, his cheeks rounder and his nose noticeably larger, eyes muddy brown instead of greenish-grey. His features lack the sort of delicate sharpness of his son’s, and yet Arthur doesn’t doubt for a moment it’s King Bagdemagus of Gore he sees. 

“Sir Bagdemagus,” Arthur makes a valiant effort to sit straighter and maybe even raise to his feet. It’s a foolish attempt at best, but he wishes he could pay due respect to the ruler of the lands he’s a guest to. 

Fortunately for his health, sir Bagdemagus stops him with a raised hand.

“Don’t strain yourself, Sire,” he says.

His voice sounds softer and deeper than Arthur expected, but it’s the title he chooses that’s truly surprising. Even when King Uther was alive, Gore refused to recognize Camelot’s authority and insisted on staying a separate kingdom. Of course, the change makes sense considering that soon enough prince of Gore will be crowned as High-King of Britain. 

“I was hoping this could be an informal visit.” A smile on sir Bagdemagus’ lips seems polite and even warm, but Arthur feels no urge to answer it. “I wish you to think of me as a father rather than a ruler.” 

Arthur lowers his head in agreement, although he’s not sure this is something that will come easy to him. He is to marry sir Bagdemagus’ son and in a way that does make them family, but for some inexplicable reason, the notion doesn’t sit well with him. 

He hasn’t heard anything bad about the king of Gore. Despite his staunch refusal to admit Camelot’s power over his realm, the relationship between their kingdoms remained perfectly amiable. The rumors painted sir Bagdemagus a good man, a just one and even kind, while his son’s reputation was so drastically different, and yet— 

Arthur doubts he should trust those talks blindly. There were plenty of things about Maleagant rumors failed to mention, his good traits instead of his flaws, and surely people couldn’t be more insightful about his father. 

And then, Arthur thinks, there must be a reason why his husband-to-be never talks about his living family while he does mention his mother a lot, with deep fondness in his voice and soft look in his eyes that make it so easy to believe he’s more than capable of genuine and selfless love. 

Perhaps Maleagant’s relationship with his father is strained. Perhaps sir Badgemagus played his role in making his son the way he is, so terribly bitter at fate and devastated by every perceived failure. 

Arthur knows he’s not being fair. He has no real reason to believe the image his feverish mind has painted, and so he pushes those thoughts away, focuses his gaze on his visitor and desperately tries to look welcoming. He’s pretty sure he fails. 

Closing the door, sir Bagdemagus heads further into the room and takes a sit on the chair his son usually occupies. For a while, he doesn’t say anything at all. He simply watches Arthur as if he’s trying to read something on his face, to find an answer to a question that hasn’t been voiced yet. 

It seems like he doesn’t succeed. A moment later, he sags in his chair and sighs deeply, suddenly looking very tired and very old. 

“I have to give you my condolences, Your Majesty,” sir Badgemagus says with a quiet sadness that stirs something cold and unpleasant in Arthur’s stomach.

_ Worry_. It must be completely irrational, for surely if there were a real reason for that he’d be warned earlier. Or is _ this _ his warning? 

Arthur feels his heart beat faster, bile rises up his throat and his fingers tighten on the furs. 

“Condolences?” he rasps, fearful and confused. He clears his throat and wills his voice to sound a little stronger. “Has something happened I’m not aware of? Is sir Maleagant in good health?”

Arthur hasn’t seen him for about five days, which _ is _ noticeably longer than usual, and though the war has yet to come to Gore’s borders, there are plenty of dangers to Maleagant’s life. Arthur isn’t so naive to believe that no one would see fit to try and get him rid of the burden of an unwanted marriage. 

He isn’t quite sure why that possibility bothers him so much, and yet he desperately hopes he’s simply overreacting. 

If anything, sir Bagdemagus seems surprised by his question. He lifts his eyebrows in a vaguely familiar manner and shakes his head.

“Nothing happened, Sire, and I can assure you my son is in perfectly good health.” He purses his lips and steeples his fingers, pauses for a moment as if unsure whether he should continue. “I was merely trying to express how sorry I am for the… trick my son used to ensure his ascending to the throne. It was, I’m afraid, rather ignoble of him.” 

Arthur barely manages to conceal how utterly befuddled he feels by these words. 

Is this the point of sir Badgemagus’ visit? To apologize for the way Maleagant used his rival’s most stupid mistake? How was that different from a fight where each wrong step of an opponent presented an opportunity to strike, and it’d be foolish not to use it? 

_ How _ is it ignoble? Perhaps Arthur would have done differently, perhaps Maleagant would’ve if the circumstances were different, but none of his actions deserve such a harsh judgment. 

“As far as I’m concerned, sir Maleagant hasn’t used any _ tricks_,” he says, feeling unexpectedly defensive. “I made a mistake, that much is true, but if there is anyone to blame it’s _ me_. I should’ve known more about my realm’s traditions.” 

“Perhaps. But that doesn’t change the fact that my son was free to refuse your offer,” Badgemagus furrows his eyebrows. “It would have been the right thing to do.” 

“Would it?” Arthur tries to soften his voice but fails. “Perhaps I didn’t know what I was offering, but this marriage could benefit both of our realms. Granted, it’s not a commonly considered match, but it’s certainly promising. It would have been short-sighted to refuse."

He had plenty of time to think this over, and he believes firmly in what he says. If sir Bagdemagus had a daughter, there is no doubt Arthur would be encouraged to marry her. The kingdom of Gore is wealthy and large, and the union with them is something Camelot sought for a long while. 

Of course, a marriage to a man brings certain complications and raises an issue with an heir, but strategically speaking it seems to be a good option. 

Still, if Arthur’s honest with himself, he doesn’t believe that on the battlefield, just as startled by his foolish proposal as anyone else, Maleagant had a chance to properly judge the situation, to weigh his options and make an informed decision. 

Arthur may not know well what kind of man his future husband is, but he can bet his crown Maleagant didn’t think of political benefits the moment he accepted the offer. Likely, he didn’t even think of the throne. Pure _ spite _ must’ve ruled him, his detest for people who judged him before he made his choice, who condemned him without a reason— 

And so he gave them one.

In truth, Arthur doesn’t really understand why what Maleagant did is considered such a terrible thing. At the end of the day, this union is no better or worse than any other political marriage. Perhaps Arthur would be happier if he could marry a person he loves, but that’s a luxury few can afford. 

He has no desire to be miserable his whole life just because he didn’t exactly choose his future spouse. 

Distracted by his thoughts, Arthur almost missed the way Bagdemagus’ gaze changes. It doesn’t soften, but it seems like he’s finally ready to consider that Arthur might not be a victim here, that while he has to deal with the consequences of his own actions, he refuses to shift the blame and see a tragedy where there is none.

He _ can’t _ hate another person for mistakes of his own doing. Besides— 

Maybe Arthur is nothing but a naive fool clinging to romantic notions, but he wholeheartedly believes that the moment he bound himself with a promise to marry Maleagant, he firmly took his side in every way possible. It doesn’t matter if he’s right or wrong, if Arthur agrees with him or condemns his actions in the privacy of his own thoughts, before the whole world he will defend him and willingly share the blame. 

Because this is what a husband does. 

This is what a _ father _ should’ve done. 

“You are wise beyond your years,” sir Bagdemagus says, although it sounds more like flattery than genuine praise. “I will be praying to God for this marriage to be beneficial to all of our lands.”

Arthur knows this is something they need. If Merlin is to be believed, Britain is in grave danger, sieged by the Saxons who soon will be ready for another strike. With this marriage the isles will no longer be torn apart by squabbles, their unity and peace within will hopefully give them enough strength to withhold the most severe of attacks. 

That alone is worth whatever personal grievances Arthur might suffer. 

“I certainly hope so,” he says quietly.

He doesn’t delude himself into believing that everything will be perfect and easy with this union. They haven’t yet discussed any matters of importance, from whether or not Gore will officially join the British kingdom and to an issue with an heir. 

Arthur made Maelagant a promise to share with him all the power given by people, and while he may genuinely like his husband-to-be, whether or not he could be a good king is another matter entirely. Perhaps it’s not for him to decide, and yet that’s also not something he can just ignore.

“Sir Badgemagus, I must thank you for your time,” Arthur says politely, suddenly desperate to be left alone with his thoughts, no matter that he dreaded this fate not long ago. “But I’m afraid I am still rather weak, so if there is nothing else to discuss…” 

He trails off, unsure how to finish the sentence without coming off as rude, a little bit jealous of Maleagant who’s never seemed to have any troubles with common courtesies. 

Thankfully, sir Bagdemagus doesn’t seem to find any offense in his awkward dismissal.

“Of course, Your Majesty.” Sir Bagdemagus rises to his feet. “Take care of your health. I hope your recovery will be swift and easy.” 

His expression is unreadable and stern, his eyes show neither sympathy nor distaste, and as he leaves with nothing but a polite bow, Arthur feels unexpectedly sharply that he _ misses _ Maleagant. Not simply his stories. They gave him relief from boredom, but sir Badgemagus’ visit did too, and yet Arthur wouldn’t wish to repeat it. 

There must be _ something _ in Maleagant himself. He isn’t an open person, but at the same time, he isn’t hard to read at all. He’s honest in his own way, complicated and challenging, and Arthur wishes to _ know _ him in every tiny detail. 

He _ misses _ Maleagant.

He doesn't have the faintest idea of how to deal with it.


	5. The Turning Point

Shielding his eyes with his palm, Maleagant squints at the setting sun. The wind ruffling his hair and cloak is chilly, but the evening is still warm, the last reminder of summer that’s still lingering in their lands. 

Maleagant takes in a chest full of air, rejoicing in a rare sense of calmness that settles in his mind. This place has never failed to bring it. He’s loved it since he was a child, this small secluded clearing near one of the smallest of Gore’s lakes. It’s far enough from the keep, but still within the castle walls, safe from any possible dangers, but Maleagant has never cared much about this part.

It’s not the threats from outside that concern him but his_ thoughts_.

He first came here when he was a little boy who recently lost his mother, seeking comfort in solitude and calming not-silence of nature. Later, he ran to this place escaping the demands of his mentors and his father’s attempts to shape him into someone he never could be, and now— 

Now he’s running away again. 

It’s not the easiest thing to admit even in the privacy of his thoughts, because the truth is if he runs he’s threatened. He_ fears_.

Lowering his hand, Maleagant closes his eyes. In the past few weeks, he didn’t have much to occupy himself with, and that certainly didn’t do him any favors. He’s never been good at being idle, never could make himself enjoy the mind-numbingly boring routine of dining-and-hunting-and-fighting. He’s always needed _more_, some purpose or goal, something to spent his energy on and release the tension that collected under his skin like a myriad of insects itching to get out.

Maleagant spent the last four years strengthening his realm’s borders, making alliances and gathering forces to oppose the boy whose right to the throne he refused to admit. He made and discarded numerous plans, he searched for a way to gain Camelot’s attention, to force their hand and to use their inevitable misstep. It became his life, a constant flurry of action at least of his _mind_ if not his body. 

Now Maleagant feels stagnant. He reached the victory he sought, perhaps unsatisfying but final, and there is nothing left but waiting. It will be no less than two weeks until Arthur’s strong enough for a wedding and a long journey back to Camelot, and much as Maleagant wishes to make his recovery quicker, he’s powerless to do so. 

Maleagant winces. He feels annoyed at his treacherous mind that can’t seem to leave alone the image of his once bitter rival. He doesn’t want to think about Arthur, not when even the fleeting thought of him never fails to bring a mess of emotions to his heart. 

They may have changed in the past few weeks, but if anything grew even more conflicting. 

It was simpler when Maleagant felt nothing but derision and hatred towards Arthur, but he couldn’t — didn’t truly _wish_ to — hold onto these feelings. When they faded, there should’ve been nothing left. Nothing but _indifference _to his husband-to-be, and yet— 

There is grudging respect Maleagant never could’ve imagined feeling. Arthur may be foolish, but he showed himself capable of owning up to his mistakes. He took full blame for his misstep and didn’t even try to accuse others of his misfortune. 

There is jealousy too, an irking resentment for the fact that once again Arthur proved to be a better man, because Maleagant is perfectly aware_ he _wouldn’t have been half as gracious and understanding if their situation were reversed. 

Worst of all is sympathy. A certain _fondness _that goes beyond simply being able to tolerate Arthur’s presence. Maleagant can’t help but feel enchanted by the boy’s sincerity, his kindness, and even his youthful naivety. Nothing he ever says or does seems deceitful or two-faced. He’s honest to the point of being blunt, he’s attentive and genuinely curious to whatever story Maleagant weaves for him every other night, he’s— impossibly, irritatingly _good_. 

Maleagant knows exactly how dangerous are those feelings he harbors for his husband-to-be. They make him_ weak_, and that’s not something he can afford. His victory, no matter how tainted, has been reached, but holding onto it is another thing entirely. 

At this point, he still has no idea how Arthur sees their future union. 

He doesn't even know how_ he_ wishes to see it. 

Maleagant was foolishly rash when he accepted the offer. He had no time to consider what would be honorable or smart, he simply wanted to prove to everyone— He’s not even sure _what_. That he’s as much of a villain as they think he is? 

In the end, he fell into a trap of his own creation, a victim to his pride and spite. _ Pathetic_, even if he can admit it may not be the worst fate he could’ve met. 

_ "This marriage could benefit both of our realms." _

Arthur’s words echo in his mind, the words he overheard by pure chance just a few days ago, and he remembers vividly how confused and unbalanced they made him feel. The fact that Arthur considered political gain at all was surprising, but that he tried to justify Maleagant’s choice to his father simply didn’t make _sense_. 

The boy was_ defending _him, for there is no way he believed that any possible benefits could be a true reason behind Maleagant’s acceptance of marriage. 

Still, Arthur wasn’t exactly wrong in his assessment. 

For over a century Gore remained the largest and the richest of British kingdoms that refused to bow to Camelot and accept the High-King’s power over them. Situated in the western part of the isles, they were still safe from the threat of the Saxons, their army keeping strong despite the recent losses, but Maleagant knew— Worse, _his father _knew they couldn’t afford to keep their independence forever. 

Maleagant wanted to take the High-King’s crown for himself, avoiding inevitable submission, but he _failed_, and with the threat of barbarians going stronger each day it was a matter of time before Camelot ceased to ignore them and forced their obedience.

The thing is, a marriage to the High-King, a union so deeply rooted in equality, means anything _but _submission. 

It is a_ compromise_, something Maleagant didn’t think possible before, and even if he remembered the ancient tradition in time he certainly wouldn’t have chosen that way.

It doesn’t stop him from entertaining the fantasy of doing just that and finding out how Arthur would react if he were to sent him an official offer to join their lands. Would he accept it like he claimed he did now, trapped or not? Would he burn the letter in utter disgust?

It doesn’t matter. What_ does _is that all things considered Maleagant did choose the wisest and the most convenient option for his realm. He knew he lost his only real chance to take the throne from Arthur, and after that any further attempt would only lead to his downfall. 

It still didn’t answer the question of_ why _Arthur chose to defend him. 

Maleagant spent days searching for a reason behind it, going so far as to suspect Arthur _knew_ he was listening and tried to get into his good graces, but that seemed frankly absurd. It was even more pointless and ridiculous than the possibility that the boy _believed _what he was saying.

But what is _left_, the thought that there was nothing but compassion and understanding in his mind, is just as dangerous as foolish fondness in Maleagant’s heart. It is too easy to believe.

It makes him hope for something he refuses to even think about.

Although_ not thinking _hadn’t led him anywhere good either.

Maleagant’s fingers curl into fists. A sense of calmness is long gone, there isn’t even a trace of it left, and neither the gentle rustling of the wind nor the warm rays of the setting sun are capable of bringing it back and chasing away the turmoil from his mind. 

Shifting his weight from one leg to the other, Maleagant considers getting a little more comfortable to watch the sunset. He considers returning to his chambers to try and distract himself with a book. He thinks of too many trivial things, but his restless, treacherous thoughts keep returning to the topic he so desperately wishes to avoid. 

He keeps remembering Cameliard. Not the battle itself, not the humiliating defeat, not even the foolish offer, but what came _next_. That moment when Maleagant impulsively decided to choose a different form of a knighting ritual, to show his power over Arthur with such a simple yet meaningful gesture, a brief press of lips to his enemy’s forehead. 

It was foolish but excusable, and yet he didn’t stop there. He wanted _more_. He wanted to feel again the same rush of satisfaction, to enjoy the most precious moment of having the sort of power he always craved most. The one that didn’t hurt, didn’t break, but simply bent to his will with a gentleness of a caress. 

Maleagant indulged himself with this too many times, he repeated the gesture again and again and_ missed_ the moment its meaning changed. The rush was still there, the pleasure was too—

And then came the desire, the longing he can’t hope to satisfy. 

Maleagant is all too aware that his kisses are lingering now, that every time he pulls away his gaze refuses to leave Arthur’s face, admiring the faint shadow of his eyelashes on his cheeks, the warmth of his brown eyes, the soft and so inviting curve of his mouth. 

Maleagant wants to know its taste. 

He_ can’t_. He allowed himself to believe Arthur became _his _the moment their marriage was decided, but he was greedy back then, still high on his imagined triumph. Their union is a formality, a marriage of convenience, a tool to unite their lands and share power between them. Nothing more. 

That’s how it’s always been in the past. The sacred vows demanded fidelity, but_ people_ didn’t, not when there was no chance for a couple to produce an heir. 

Maleagant isn’t a good person, but he’s not a monster either, no matter what people of Britain might choose to believe. He can’t force his affections on Arthur. It would be laughably easy to lead him to believe consummation is something that’s necessary, but it’s _not_, and— 

“Maleagant!” 

A sound of a voice — _Arthur’s_ voice — interrupts Maleagant’s thoughts. He turns around sharply, unable to hide his surprise at the fact he didn’t even notice another’s presence. 

Arthur’s still a good hundred feet away, but his steps are swift — _too _swift for a man who’s barely allowed to leave his bed. Maleagant curves his lips in a grimace of disdain, hoping to mask the worry he feels. 

“Arthur,” he greets dryly as the boy comes closer. “What are you doing here?”

“I was looking for you,” Arthur says with a familiar frankness, his eyes wide and sincere. He looks a little out of breath, his cheeks are flushed, though doubtfully from being embarrassed about his intrusion. “Vogan told me you come here often.”

“Vogan has a big mouth,” Maleagant retorts, then adds before he can think twice: “I don’t think it counts as compensation for his _other _shortcomings.”

He’s used to Vogan being the butt of a joke amongst his men, and a good-natured dig at him slips out a little too easily. He never allowed himself to talk to Arthur in such manner, but when the corners of the boy’s mouth twitch and his eyes light up with mirth, Maleagant can’t make himself regret it. He’s even tempted to smile back before he remembers himself. 

“I haven’t seen you for over a week,” Arthur says, mirth in his eyes giving place to concern. “Did something happen?”

Nothing but his newfound cowardice, though there is no way Maleagant will admit it aloud. 

“I was quite busy,” Maleagant raises his eyebrows and crosses his arms, shivering from a sudden chill. “Was there anything else? I think you’d better return to the castle, you’re still weak.” 

“Maleagant,” Arthur says with a hint of reproach in his voice. He takes a step forward and raises his hand as if he wishes to touch Maleagant, but he seems to change his mind at the last moment. “You’re avoiding me. Is there a reason for that? Something I did?”

Maleagant considers lying. He would prefer it, to be honest, but if he’s learned anything about Arthur it is that he’s both incredibly stubborn and surprisingly good at reading people. He'd likely see right through him. 

“I overheard you talking to my father,” Maleagant says. 

It may not be the whole truth, but it’s a part of it. Perhaps, it may be enough for Arthur to let it slide. 

“Oh.” A frown settles between Arthur’s brows, his eyes seem worried and unsure. “Did I say something wrong? I admit, courtesy and politics aren’t my strongest suits, but I thought…” 

He trails off and awkwardly ruffles his hair. Maleagant doesn’t miss the brief pained grimace on Arthur’s face, his too sharp movement likely aggravating the still-healing wound. 

Maleagant presses his lips into a thin line and doesn’t deign to answer Arthur’s question. Instead, he heads to the place near the tree line where he left his sword and his cloak. 

Crutching down, he spreads the thick woolen fabric of the cloak on the ground. 

“Sit,” he orders. “And be careful, I don’t want you to undo my work.”

Arthur doesn’t voice any protests, his eyes seem to soften and small smile blossoms on his lips. Maleagant turns away, having no desire to see it. The Waiting Year has already begun and there is nothing personal about his concern.

The lie seems especially weak in light of his recent thoughts. 

Wrapping his arm around Arthur’s shoulders, Maleagant gingerly helps him lower himself on the ground. Even now he’s not entirely used to them being this close, but maybe one day it’ll change. 

Maybe one day it’ll feel _good_ and not so awfully discomfiting. 

Arthur’s breaths quicken as he struggles to regain his composure and his muscles are trembling a bit. It’s obvious he overestimated his physical condition, and he’d be lucky to manage his way back to the castle. 

Maleagant certainly won’t_ carry_ him. 

“You are a fool,” he says frankly. 

Arthur just smiles at him, weak but genuine, and pats the cloak next to him in a clear invitation to join. Maleagant doesn’t even think about refusing, too weary to deal with Arthur’s royal stubbornness.

The ground is a little cold, but another’s presence by his side, so intimate and close, easily wards away the chill. 

With a quiet sigh, Arthur closes his eyes and turns his face towards the sun, the last of its rays painting his features in reddish-gold hues, the colors of his house. 

“It’s so peaceful here,” he says after a little while. “And so beautiful. I’ve never imagined Gore to be so breathtakingly beautiful, but it _is_.”

Maleagant grimaces. He _knows_ Arthur paid him a genuine compliment and certainly didn’t mean any offense, but his restless mind still searches for a hint of accusation in his words. 

“What have you imagined then?” he asks sharply. “A wasteland? Grim and deep forests? Something that would suit an image of a…” he pauses, searching for the right word, but there is only one that comes to his mind, “…villain.” 

Isn’t that who he’s always been to Arthur? 

He came so readily to Leodegrance’s help, glorious in his righteousness, prepared to fight a terrible monster that invaded his trusted ally’s lands and threatened to steal a gentle lady from her father. 

Perhaps if things turned out differently, Arthur would’ve taken beautiful Guinevere for himself, would’ve fallen for her charms, would be preparing for a different wedding now… 

Maleagant notices he tightened his fists only when Arthur’s palm covers his hand in a wordless plea to calm down, to let go of the tension and temper the ire that came from nowhere. 

Maleagant exhales sharply and closes his eyes. Sometimes, he’s genuinely taken aback by his own flares of rage. Sometimes, he’s willing to admit he understands why his father has always wanted him to be different, for _who _would want a mess he is?

Arthur’s thumb strokes the underside of his wrist in a mindless, soothing caress. It ends too soon, the very moment he remembers himself and snatches his hand away. 

“I’m sorry,” he apologizes, though Maleagant’s not sure what for. “Believe me, I don’t see you as a villain. I never did. And it’s not…”

With a sigh, Arthur raises his eyes to the sky as if he’s hoping to find there the right words to say. 

“The tales of us is yet to be written, and when it happens… I suppose, whichever roles we’ll get will depend on who’s writing the story.” 

Maleagant feels something sharp stir in his chest as he forces an uneven smile. 

“The tales of us…” he repeats. “I didn’t know you have the heart of a philosopher.”

Arthur’s answering smile seems too carefree and too bright.

“I admit, I haven’t had a pleasure to read Plato in Greek,” he says, not in the very least ashamed of his poor education. “And yet I still have my moments of…” 

“Enlightenment?”

“Precisely.”

Maleagant feels laughter bubbling in his chest, and no matter how hard he tries to hold it back, it still manages to break free. It’s startling how fast his mood shifts, from bitterness and anger to genuine mirth, but at least_ this _change is welcome. 

He catches Arthur’s eyes on him, bright and oddly mesmerized, and there is a feeling in them that looks too close to wonder, to something that isn’t — _cannot_ — be real. 

It sobers Maleagant up quickly.

He steeples his fingers and lowers his eyes, his smile dimming and fading away.

For a while, there is nothing but silence. It isn’t exactly companionable, but there is nothing tense about it either. The quiet is interrupted only by the sound of birds chirping somewhere high in the trees and the gentle rustling of the wind. 

Maleagant watches as the sun sets over the lake, leaving but a memory of colors on the sky and taking away the last traces of warmth.

“You said you want the throne, you fought for it so hard.” Arthur is the first to break the silence, his voice is serious and calm, lacking the joking lightness of before. “Why do you need it so desperately?”

Maleagant bristles. 

“That’s quite a bold question, considering you did nothing to gain it.” His words are laced with poison he doesn’t bother to hide. “You did nothing, and yet it’s yours._ I_ won the tournament, while _you_ weren’t even eligible to fight.” 

“That’s true,” Arthur acknowledges, but it does nothing to soothe Maleagant’s hurt. The_ opposite_ of that, he feels the fire in his heart ignite anew, the bitter rage consuming his mind. 

He_ hates _the unfairness of fate and the scorn of people, his helplessness before it all. 

For what wrongdoings he’s punished? 

Maleagant furrows his brows, disturbed by the faint throbbing pain pulsing in his head. It’s barely noticeable, and yet he can’t forget how fast it may turn into torture. 

He presses his cold fingers to his temples, but it’s a short relief.

“I’m not saying you’re wrong,” Arthur continues as Maleagant keeps silent. “I didn’t fight in the tournament and I did nothing to deserve the throne. All I have is Merlin’s claim of my birthright and the sword…” he pauses, his palm pressed to his hip as if he’s imagining the soothing weight of Excalibur there. “I don’t really know what its choice meant, whether it proved I’m truly worthy or that I simply have King Uther’s blood in my veins, but— That doesn’t have anything to do with my question.” 

Arthur finally turns towards Maleagant, easily meeting his eyes. His gaze is serious and almost stern, and perhaps for the first time he truly looks like a king. Not just a young boy, naive and too kind, but the ruler he’s been painted in rumors. 

That side of Arthur is just as desirable to Maleagant, it stirs just as readily a hopeless longing in his heart, but in the end, it’s nothing but another impossible wish, another top he can’t reach, though once he believed himself accepting no limits. 

This time he runs away from disappointment before he can taste it.

Perhaps his struggle to win the throne did teach him a lesson or two.

“When we are wed and our lands are joined, you will become the High-King of Britain,” Arthur says. “I may not know Greek, but I haven’t forgotten my own language. I’m fully aware of what this union means. You won’t be simply my consort, you will have just as much power as I do.” 

Maleagant averts his eyes. It’s the first time he hears those words said aloud, the reality of their marriage acknowledged, and _still _it rings hollow. 

He was informed that Arthur spent some time in the castle’s library, most likely researching everything he could find about the union he’s about to enter, and it’s a good thing he took it upon himself to discover the truth. 

Maleagant has never wished to be the one to explain what they’ve truly gotten themselves into and yet— 

In Arthur’s voice, in the firm set of his mouth and the pull of his heavy eyebrows, Maleagant reads an accusation he’s never truly felt before. He didn’t _mean _to be misleading. 

“What’s next? When you get all the power you desired, everything you wanted for so long…” Arthur trails off. He takes a deep breath, and his eyes seem to soften just a little. “What sort of king will you become?”

“I care about Britain,” Maleagant repeats the same thing he said weeks ago, his answer prepared and_ truthful_. “I want it to prosper, I—” 

“But that’s not why you wanted the crown.” 

“No. That’s not why.”

He wanted it for _himself_, to sate his own ambition. Perhaps he’s selfish — he’s always been — but who else would care if not him? Not people of Britain, not his father and certainly not Arthur. 

More than anything in the world Maleagant longed to be accepted, respected and _loved_, and he thought he’d found a perfect way to have it all. He set himself to become something better, something grander, _the king. _Simply being himself has never been enough.

He needed power, he wanted to rule. He knew he’d be good at that, but at the end of the day, the crown was nothing but a tool to fulfill his heart’s deepest desire. He_ has_ it now. He can almost feel its weight on his head, and yet— 

“I won’t be accepted.” The bitter truth burns on his tongue, it fills his soul to the brim with misery and dissatisfaction, it _pains_ him so much more than the prospect of a loveless marriage or the need to share the throne. It’s _hard_ to admit aloud, but not half as much as he thought when there is only Arthur to witness his weakness. “I used your mistake to secure this union, the one that would’ve never happened if not for your ignorance, and for the people…” for his father, for Arthur’s knights, for the whole of Britain, “...it’s nothing but a lie, deceit, dishonor. It’s not a fair victory.”

The silence lasts for a heartbeat, and then Arthur speaks, his voice gentle and quiet: “But even your fair victory wasn’t enough.” 

There is an understanding in his words, so rare it seems impossible, so cherished that for once the anger doesn’t come. 

Not even when Maleagant is hurting so much. 

He tries to find words to say but there are none. Taking a deep breath, he closes his eyes and presses his fingers to his eyelids, praying that the headache won’t worsen.

After a moment, he feels Arthur move closer to him, perhaps seeking warmth or wishing to share it, to give the only comfort he can offer. 

“I’m sure you convinced yourself I don’t have a choice but to marry you,” he murmurs. “I don’t believe that, but that doesn’t really matter. I told you before, I accept this marriage, everything that it means for us and for Britain. I accept _you_.” 

Maleagant swallows heavily, unable to deny how much it means to him, how painful and_ sweet _it feels. 

“Iaccept you,” Arthur repeats. “And so will they. Otherwise…”

He doesn’t finish, but his message is clear. The High-King’s choice is final, and doubting it means doubting _him_. There is a promise in these words, the one which true worth Maleagant cannot grasp at this moment. 

He doesn’t want to — _can’t _— sort a mess of his feelings. 

His eyes are still closed when he hears a rustling of clothes and a quiet cursing. Arthur’s trying to stand up, clinging to the tree and grunting from pain, but when Maleagant makes a move to help him, he simply waves him off. 

“I’m fine, I’m fine, don’t bother.” 

He hesitates for a moment, then quickly leans into Maleagant’s space and presses a brief kiss to his forehead. It lasts mere seconds, and then he finally straightens and steps away.

There is a smile playing on his lips and his eyes are bright with boyish, juvenile mirth.

“I sincerely hope I’ll see you next evening,” he says. “I do miss your company.” 

He doesn’t add anything else and doesn’t wait for an answer, though Maleagant isn’t sure he’s ready to give one anyway. He watches as Arthur heads back towards the castle, his steps slow yet steady enough not to raise any worry. 

For a moment he contemplates saying at least _something_ but decides against it.

When Arthur’s figure finally disappears behind the trees, Maleagant allows himself to stretch out on the ground, then turns his face towards the darkened sky peppered with first dim stars. 

He feels the calmness he thought irrevocably lost spreading through his body, unexpected but certainly welcome. He thinks— He’s _sure _he’ll enjoy Arthur’s company tomorrow and the next day too. 

Something changed between them today, something Maleagant can’t put into words, but the balance_ had _tipped, and he’s oddly optimistic it is for the best. 


	6. The Ceremony

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Company's "Getting Married Today" plays in the distance]

“Nervous, Your Majesty?” 

Arthur half turns to stare at Drest who just finished tightening up the straps of his breastplate. The man — one of the two Maleagant tasked with guarding him — meets his gaze unflinching, his pale eyes sparkling with frankly insulting amusement. Oddly enough, it only serves to ease a bit of the nervous tension in Arthur’s chest. 

He wondered a couple of times _ why _ for all that Maleagant demands to be respected and feels deeply insulted if someone denies him that, those few people he seems to hold in high regard are so outspoken if not outright rude.

It may be that it’s their honesty that makes their loyalty matter so much. Arthur remembers all of those rumors that called Maleagant two-faced and deceitful creature, and yet he found out they couldn’t be further from the truth. In many ways, his husband-to-be seems to be even more straightforward than Arthur himself is, so open with his opinions and dislikes. Perhaps not his _ fancies_, but holding them close to his chest in an admittedly misguided attempt to save his face isn’t remotely the same as being a liar. 

Arthur blinks, realizing he once again got sidetracked by thoughts of the man who became so important to him in the past few weeks. 

The man he will wed this very day. 

“Yes,” he exhales, admitting the truth without a bit of shame. 

_ Of course _ he’s nervous. 

Arthur is pretty sure that the last time he felt so jittery was the day he finally got to fulfill his duties as a squire to Kay, but even when his brother’s honor was at stake the importance of it couldn’t be compared to merging the kingdoms and binding his life to the man he will promise to cherish forever. 

Drest’s too-large mouth stretches into a grin, and while he doesn’t say anything, the twinkle in his eyes suggests all too clearly he might know something Arthur isn’t supposed to discover just yet. 

Despite the unease that settles even deeper in his stomach, Arthur finds himself smiling back.

The truth is he _ likes _ Drest, much as he likes the gloomier and stricter Cynbel, even if there weren’t a lot of opportunities for them to get to know each other. It’s been a little over three weeks since Arthur was even allowed to leave the castle, raising the issue of needing an escort, and his guards weren’t exactly _ friendly _ at first, likely wary of his intentions towards his husband-to-be. Both of them were clearly extremely loyal to their prince. 

Their mistrust seemed to disappear in time, quite likely because of the evident change in Arthur’s relationship with Maleagant that their memorable talk brought. They hardly could’ve been called friends now, but at least they were— _ something_. 

More than just grudging allies. 

“I’ll go get your cloak,” Drest says. 

Arthur winces. He’s not very fond of the last part of his ceremonial attire, the luxurious and almost gaudy fur-collared cloak in the deep red of Roman royalty. It was gifted to him by king Bagdemagus. A peace offering of sorts, an attempt to smooth the lingering tension between them. Their relationship didn’t have a great start, and Arthur couldn’t help but remain biased to this day, especially after discovering just how much Maleagant was hurt by his father’s words.

Still, it would be a great offense to refuse the gift, and Arthur has to admit it does suit the occasion. 

Squaring his shoulders, he allows Drest to place the heavy cloak upon him. It should’ve been a squire’s duty, but Arthur refused to take one when he wasn’t a knight yet. He _ is _ now, and once he’s back in Camelot he’ll have to think about finding a boy to serve him.

Thankfully, right now his guard is doing an excellent job. Perhaps Arthur will be able to use his help for a little while longer. 

“Are you coming with us to Camelot?” he asks, fastening his cloak with an ornate fibula. 

It’s a poor attempt to distract himself from the thoughts of his upcoming wedding, but if he doesn’t at least _ try_, he isn’t sure he’ll be able to leave this room. 

“Likely so, Sire.” Adjusting the cloak, Drest finally steps away. “Sir Maleagant will certainly wish to take his people with him, and both Cynbel and I are used to accompanying him pretty much everywhere. I’m sure Vogan won’t be left behind either. After all, every court needs a jester.” 

Arthur chuckles quietly. He feels a little sorry for Vogan, but he has to admit the boy entirely deserves his reputation.

Gods, but he’s going to _ miss _ Gore, its breathtakingly beautiful landscapes, colorful valleys and crystal-clear lakes, so utterly mesmerizing that sometimes he caught himself doubting it is a land of mortals. 

He’s going to miss people too. They may be different from the folks he’s used to dealing with, a little more closed-off and wicked-tongued, but still trustworthy and good. Soon enough they will become his subjects, and Arthur hopes he’ll be deserving of their loyalty and acceptance. 

He finds that he understands now why so many people chose to follow Maleagant when he refused to accept Arthur’s right for the throne. They were the sort of people whose respect had to be earned, but once it happened nothing could sway them. Perhaps Maleagant expected the same from the whole of Britain. In truth, Arthur did too, but— 

Well, there is no point in lamenting that now. Soon enough their lands will be finally united and there will be no reason for people to be torn in their loyalties. Arthur just wishes this thought would be capable of bringing peace to his heart, but it’s not the concern about his kingdom’s fate that makes his throat go dry and his hands tremble. 

He’s getting married today. 

Arthur stares at the murky reflection in the mirror, barely recognizing himself. His hair grew longer, he lost weight and his features sharpened. He seems older and almost _ regal_, but that’s so far from how he feels. He may look like a king, a man ready to step into political marriage and strengthen his realm, but deep in his soul— 

Deep in his soul, he’s just a boy, nervous and a little giddy about seeing the man he’ll swear to love for the rest of his life. The man he thinks he _ wants _ to love, and the thought of it fills his heart with bright and conflicting and too raw emotions. 

Arthur has no idea how to deal with them. He doesn’t feel ready to make his vow and yet at the very same time can’t _ wait _ to say the words. 

Has it been only two months? It seems like it was just yesterday he truly saw Maleagant for the first time, noticed how beautiful he is, how enticing in all complexity of his character. 

It seems like not an hour has passed since he realized his feelings for his husband-to-be go beyond simple attraction or even vague fondness. He doesn’t know yet how far, but he can’t deny that being ready to face the consequences of his mistake is not the same as _ wanting _ it, and he—

He _ does_. 

There is a sharp knock at the door, and then a creak of the hinges. It makes Drest tense up, but Arthur simply turns to face the visitor, expecting it to be one of the servants. He’s pleased to be mistaken when it’s Gawain he sees, his most loyal knight and his dearest friend, the person he missed so terribly during his stay in Gore.

When their eyes meet, Arthur can’t help but notice the naked relief in Gawain’s gaze. It’s clear that he was worried about his king’s fate, but even as he sees him now, healthy and ready to be wed, the shadow of concern doesn’t disappear from his face. If anything, it only grows deeper. 

He’s not happy about the wedding. 

Arthur isn’t sure why he expected it to be any different. 

“My king,” Gawain greets him in a way that’s appropriate in another’s presence, although it’s unlikely that Drest of all people would mind the informal addressing. “I must express how glad I am to see you in good health, but I was asked to urge you to hurry to the Great Hall. Everyone is prepared for the ceremony, and your… husband-to-be awaits you.” 

Arthur wishes his friend would offer just a tiny bit of comfort, a pat on the shoulder or friendly advice. Something _ other _ than the cold words that etiquette demands. 

Arthur pushes his hair back, wincing when he feels the sweat on his forehead. It’s too hot for him in his full armor and fur-collared cloak, but he knows it’s mostly his nerves he has to blame. His heart is beating too fast and his face must be red. Gods, he hopes Maleagant won’t notice or at least won’t think it terribly unattractive… 

“Thank you, Gawain,” Arthur manages to say. “We should be going.” 

Adjusting his cloak one last time, he leaves the room, his loyal knight following suit and Drest easily falling into step beside both of them. Gawain eyes him warily, and Arthur desperately wishes he could explain that he has nothing to fear from Maleagant’s people. Even if his husband-to-be didn’t genuinely care about his well-being, the Waiting Year protects his life far better than any guards can hope. 

They pass a few familiar halls and the narrow steps, following the way Arthur took care to memorize the day king Bagdemagus insisted on celebrating his royal guest’s recovery. It was a rather dull affair, and Arthur sincerely hopes _ this _ ceremony and its aftermath will be much merrier despite the lingering tension between their people. 

It’s almost time. 

In mere moments he will pass the point of no return, and there will be nowhere to run and no chance to reconsider his willingness to pay for his mistake. 

There was a time — ridiculously brief, when Arthur thinks about it — when he would’ve gladly backed out of their agreement, but now— _ Now _ he fears that something will go wrong, that Maleagant has changed his mind and decided he has no need for a husband like him even for the promise of the throne. 

This doubt is completely unfounded and Arthur _ knows _ it, and yet he has to clench his fists to stop a trembling in his hands. 

As they finally reach the ornate doors leading to the Great Hall, they are greeted by the solemn figure of Merlin. The druid’s face is impassive and his gaze is all-knowingly calm. Much like Gawain, he arrived too late for Arthur to have a chance to speak with him privately, and it wouldn’t be surprising if Maleagant deliberately set the welcoming date so close to the actual ceremony. 

Arthur doesn’t have to guess his reasons. Merlin’s expression may be far less telling than Gawain’s, but there is no doubt he’s just as displeased with the upcoming marriage. If he had a chance, he would undoubtedly try to talk Arthur out of seeing this through, but even if his reasons for that are greater than nasty rumors about Maleagant, even if he sees some impending doom in their future… 

There is no way Arthur will change his mind now. 

Drest takes a step forward, signaling the guards to open the doors. 

The hall is eerily silent. Arthur’s gaze slides across the tables full of rich food and wines, the guest behind them sullen and unhappy. His people weren’t here to witness the courtship, and Maleagant’s are too prideful to make the first step and ease the hostility.

There will be time to try and change it, but now— 

Arthur finally makes himself turn his eyes to Maleagant. He’s glad he hasn’t moved yet or he’d surely be tripping over his feet, completely _ mesmerized _ by the sight of his husband-to-be. 

With a gentle nudge — from Gawain or Drest, he’s not sure — he finally takes a few steps forward, and still he can’t take his eyes off the man he’s about to wed.

Maleagant looks startlingly _ different _ in full ceremonial attire, rich and tasteful, inky black with just a few hints of molten gold. These are the colors of his kingdom and he wears them well.

He stands in the center of the hall near the altar, his shoulders squared, his back rigidly straight and his face unreadable and tight. He’s _ beautiful _ this very moment, almost otherworldly so, and yet— He seems so cold, so terribly distant.

Arthur swallows the lump in his throat. He doesn’t slow his steps until he stands before Maleagant, under the gazes of dozens of people who gathered here to witness the ceremony. Arthur learned by heart its every step, every word and every gesture, unwilling to once again become a victim of his ignorance or shame his partner by an accidental blunder. 

He meets Maleagant’s gaze, noticing faint shadows that lie under his eyes. They seem darker and discomfitingly intense, and it’s impossible to read even a trace of emotion in their depths. There is no anticipation, no worry, no detest. _ Nothing_.

Arthur feels the giddiness in his heart fizzling out, the hope that this wedding could be a happy one slowly morphing into doubt. And yet— 

Too many times he’s been called incredibly stubborn and reckless, and isn’t that the truth? He won’t — _ can’t _ — give up so easily. 

He hates the quiet in the hall, the absolute silence that makes the memory of Maleagant’s words echo impossibly loud in his head. 

_ They won’t accept me. _

_ They_, the people of Britain who came to Gore for the royal wedding. The kings and dukes, their daughters and wives, the noble knights deeply loyal to Arthur. Their presence easily swallows those few who would stand by Maleagant’s side no matter what happens, but _ Arthur _ is now amongst them.

Sending a small smile to Maleagant, he reaches out and takes his hand, squeezing his fingers in a gesture of silent reassurance. For a moment so brief it’s too easy to miss, he’s sure that the wall separating them _ cracks_, showing him just a glimpse of true feelings he longed to see. 

Maleagant is nervous too. He’s wary and _ hurting _ for reasons both real and imagined.

Arthur barely registers Merlin’s presence beside them. He startles slightly as the red ribbon slithers like a snake across his skin and wraps around his and Maleagant’s joined hands, a symbol of the ties that will bind them. 

“By sky and water, by fire and earth, I bless you, Arthur Pendragon, and you, Maleagant of Gore.” 

Merlin’s voice is solemn and calm, and it doesn’t waver when he utters the names no one would ever expect to be tied together. 

Arthur is grateful for that. 

“By sky and water, by fire and earth,” his words echo.

He watches, unable to tear his eyes away, as Maleagant’s lips whisper the same vow. In just a few moments Arthur will kiss those lovely, perfect lips, for this is what ritual demands. This is what he _ wants _ for himself and he hopes he’ll get to repeat it time and time again in the privacy of their chambers.

“I bless this union that will bring happiness and peace to your people.” 

There is a faint rustle of whispers and a chuckle that sounds almost too loud in the complete silence of the hall. This could mean _ nothing_, there could be no mockery or ill will intended, but the damage is done. The corners of Maleagant’s mouth pull downward and his fingers tremble slightly. 

Arthur wishes he could _ do _ something, send a warning glare at the culprit, but the ritual shouldn’t be interrupted. There is no comfort he can offer Maleagant. 

“Do you swear to love each other and be faithful to each other until death do you part?” 

“To love and be faithful,” Arthur says without the slightest hesitation, and even if he sees the doubt in the steely-grey eyes of his husband-to-be, he refuses to share it. “I swear.” 

He’ll readily take the first step and the second one, _ all of them _ if that’s what he has to do. 

There is a silence that lasts just a heartbeat but feels so painfully long, and then Malegant exhales: “I swear.” 

Merlin guides their tied-together hands towards the sun and then back to earth. Arthur follows each step of the ceremony unthinking, he pays no attention to the heavy gazes of his people. Maleagant is the only one he sees, the only one important, and he won’t — can’t — let the damning whispers ring truer that their vows. 

The ritual is finally complete. 

Merlin steps away. Untying the ribbon, Arthur lets it fall on the stone floor, for it no longer holds any meaning. He’s tied to Maleagant by his vows and their bond is unbreakable and true. 

There is only one thing left.

Arthur leans closer to Maleagant, his _ husband _ now, mesmerized by the sight of his slightly parted lips, so temptingly inviting, and then— 

“Long live the king, long live the queen!” Vogan chimes in, his loud and clearly drunk voice rings through the hall. There is a sound of a heavy slap, then hurt and quiet: “Hey, what was that for?”

Arthur shuts his eyes for a moment, desperately trying not to laugh. It _ is _ hysterically amusing, and there is no doubt the poor fool didn’t mean it as an insult, but Maleagant’s cheeks still darken from embarrassment and humiliation and his eyes flash with anger. 

Squeezing his husband’s hand tighter, Arthur presses their foreheads together and tries to regain just a tiny bit of control over himself. He feels Maleagant’s breaths quicken as the silence grows, but then it _breaks _ with booming laughter of the man whose voice Arthur has no trouble recognizing. 

“Long live the king!” declares Bors, one of his oldest and most trusted friends. “Long live the _ new _ king!”

The murmurs of approval fill the hall, unsure and hesitant at first, but slowly they grow stronger until the roar of congratulations seems almost deafening. Vogan’s voice is the loudest of all as if he’s desperately trying to make up for his mistake.

Arthur exhales. Letting go of Maleagant’s hand, he cradles his face between his palms and simply _ looks _ at him for a long blessed moment. His eyes are startled and relieved, they sparkle with perhaps inappropriate but so infectious mirth. 

The wedding is supposed to be a joyful occasion, and so it will be. 

Finally, Arthur gets to kiss his husband. He presses their mouths together, brief and chaste and wonderfully intimate, but not nearly _ enough_. He’s asking for permission, for something _ more_, the gazes of their people be damned, and as he reads a silent agreement in Maleagant’s eyes, the reckless boldness in him grows. 

Arthur slips his tongue between his husband’s parted lips. He kisses him deep and slow, lightheaded from how sweet, how _ satisfying _ it feels. Maleagant’s mouth is pliant and soft, but his answering kiss is anything but. It’s passionate and demanding, and Arthur feels his lips tingle and his ears ring from approving roars of the crowd, so terribly _ easy _ to please.

“Long live the new king,” he whispers as they part, pleased when a small sincere smile blossoms on Maleagant’s lips. 

Arthur leans in for one last kiss, wishing to savor its taste. 

This moment, he’s still allowed. 

What comes next only Gods now.


	7. Interlude: Gawain

In the past two months — since the battle of Cameliard when his king has been wounded and trapped, whisked away to the lands of his most bitter rival — Gawain imagined dozens of scenarios of how this all could end.

His biggest fear was that Arthur wouldn’t survive his injury at all. His wound looked dangerously deep, and it was foolish to think Maleagant of all people would give his greatest enemy proper care. It cost nothing that he claimed he won’t let Arthur die, not when his hatred was so strong, so poisonous and deadly.

Gawain prayed to Gods for Arthur’s health. He felt relieved beyond measure when he finally received an invitation for the wedding ceremony, but while he allowed himself to hope his king would be healed in body, his spirit remained a great worry.

He expected to see Arthur miserable, angry and lost, trapped in an unwanted marriage by mistake that in truth was Gawain’s, but the reality turned out to be so drastically different his mind simply refused to accept it.

There should be a reasonable explanation for what he witnessed during the ceremony. Another trap, some vile magic, _anything_.

Gawain watched, unable to look away, as Arthur exchanged sacred vows with Maleagant of Gore. He watched as the newlywed couple took their places at the head of the table, as they _celebrated_ their union instead of lamenting it.

He waited until Arthur excused himself to the privy, then slipped away from the hall himself, hoping to catch his king — his _friend_ — on his way back, to try and talk some sense into him before it’s too late.

It’s _already_ too late, but he can’t let Arthur dig his grave any deeper.

Standing still in the silence of the hallway, Gawain tries and fails to find the right words to say. He clenches his fists tightly when he hears the sound of Arthur’s steps, swift and hurried as if he can’t wait to return to his husband’s side.

“My king,” Gawain greets as Arthur slows down, looking mildly surprised and a little wary to see him. “Arthur.”

The given name sounds better. Right now, it feels much more important to be a _friend_, not just a servant.

“Gawain.” There is a cautious smile on Arthur’s face. “I hope you’re enjoying the celebration. Is there something you need from me?”

“Yes,” Gawain answers plainly.

Deep in his heart, he knows he has no right to question his king’s decisions, but once he chose to keep silent and this is where that got them.

He won’t repeat the same mistake twice.

“I need you to tell me what’s going on,” he says, abandoning the last pretense of propriety.

“What are you talking about?”

Arthur scrunches his forehead in confusion as if he’s genuinely at a loss. Perhaps he is. Perhaps in some matters he’s still a young boy, immature and naive, and for all that Gawain wants to see him a perfect king, he can’t place this kind of burden on his shoulders.

“I’m talking about the ceremony,” he elaborates. “I’m talking about what is happening between you and Maleagant of Gore. The way you kissed him…”

Gawain trails off, unable to describe what he saw not long ago, what every guest saw, though most of them weren’t bothered by the image.

There was no disgust or resignation in Arthur’s eyes when he kissed Maleagant, not even lust which would be understandable and easy. Instead, he looked at his husband with feeling words failed to capture, a feeling that looked too close to tenderness and genuine warmth. Something so intimate it felt uncomfortable to watch.

Gawain has known Arthur for four years now and he witnessed plenty of his infatuations. He knew the way his king acted with those who caught his fancy, and with Maleagant it was exactly that and more.

So much more.

“You kissed him like you’d kiss a lover,” Gawain finishes, though it isn’t the whole truth. Not even the most troubling part of it.

His voice sounds accusing even if he tries to hide it. He knows all too well the ways this can end in utter misery and he desperately wishes Arthur will listen to him, but—

His king has always been deaf to the voice of reason when it came to matters of his heart.

“A husband,” Arthur corrects with half a smile on his lips, but his eyes grow hard.

A few years ago he would’ve lost his temper in a situation like this, but the fact that he has better control now doesn’t matter much. He _admits_ that what Gawain saw was real and not just a figment of his troubled imagination.

Worse, he is aware exactly of what he’s doing.

Gawain fights the urge to rub his face.

He casts a quick look at the doors leading to the Great Hall. The celebrations are getting so loud the sounds of laughter can be heard even from here, so it’s highly unlikely their conversation will be overheard.

“He tricked you, Arthur,” Gawain says, keeping his voice low. “I don’t know what lies he fed you, but what he did was trap you with a sole purpose to get the—”

“He didn’t _trick_ me,” Arthur interrupts harshly.

His eyes flash with familiar ire. He’s always been quick to anger, too used to hiding behind it whatever truths he refused to acknowledge.

“He didn’t set any traps and played no games. It was _I_ who made a mistake, why blame him? He didn’t make me offer my hand in marriage.”

Arthur’s fingers curl into fists and his jaw clenches tightly.

Gawain feels guilt rising in his chest, persistent and scorchingly hot. Maleagant isn’t _blameless_, he used Arthur’s ignorance to his own gain and acted without honor, but it’s true that it wasn’t him who set the path to disaster.

It was Gawain.

If only he didn’t keep silent that day two years ago. If only he didn’t presume Arthur’s feelings towards him could possibly surpass brotherly affection. If only he asked and not assumed…

They wouldn’t be in this situation now.

“I’m sorry, Arthur,” he says quietly.

Arthur’s eyes soften, his anger leaves easily for it never could last long.

“What for?” he asks.

“I’m sorry I didn’t say anything back then when you asked me to…” Gawain shakes his head. “I just thought…”

For a moment Arthur looks confused, but then understanding flashes on his face and his eyes sparkle with amusement. He raises his eyebrows, barely fighting a smile.

“You thought I was asking for marriage,” he sounds so incredulous, Gawain wonders just how on earth he managed to believe that possibility.

Not even once he noticed his king looking at him with anything resembling romantic affection, but then again he certainly never would’ve guessed that one day he will see those feelings directed toward Maleagant of Gore.

“Listen, Gawain,” Arthur continues. “Whatever happened, happened. It was foolish of me to never learn my land’s traditions, no matter how archaic they were. You assumed I knew them and acted in accordance. It wasn’t your fault. You aren't guilty of my ignorance. But neither is Maleagant.”

“He still should’ve refused.”

A look of displeasure flashes in Arthur’s eyes, but Gawain refuses to back off. If Maleagant of Gore possessed any honor, he _would’ve_ refused.

That’s what Gawain did in his place. There weren’t any witnesses back then, no chance for him to prove the offer was even made, but still the thought of accepting it didn’t even cross his mind. He wasn’t _worthy_ of such power, much like he wasn’t worthy of Arthur’s affections in which he believed for the briefest of moments.

He knew that his refusal _hurt_ Arthur, but that was the right thing to do for both of them and their kingdom too.

At least that’s what he thought up to the moment when he realized it was the title of the _knight_ Arthur longed for. It bothered him that he had all the power in the world, but not this simple thing. If Gawain realized it in time, if he hadn’t reached for the most ridiculous explanation— Gods, if he just _asked_ what Arthur truly wanted, it all would have turned out differently.

Instead, it was Maleagant who fulfilled Arthur’s desire. It was Maleagant who clearly saw his greatest wish and saw fit to grant it. Because he could, because it didn’t cost him much, because it showcased his power when the victory had already been reached.

Still, that wasn’t something he _had_ to do, so maybe—

“He didn’t have to.”

It takes Gawain a moment to realize that Arthur’s voice isn’t just an echo of his thoughts but an answer to what he said earlier.

Pressing his lips tight, Arthur sends a glance toward the Great Hall. It’s clear that he’d prefer to be there right now, and soon enough people will notice their king’s prolonged absence.

They don’t have the luxury to drag out this talk.

Arthur rakes his fingers through his hair and sighs. He doesn’t look angry, just tired and maybe a little irritated.

“It’s not that easy.” There is a plea in his voice as if he’s begging Gawain to understand something truly important. “Maleagant and I, we aren’t a bad match. It could be considered a good political marriage if circumstances were a little different. Yes, I made a mistake and Maleagant used it to his gain, but believe me when I say it, I’ve never felt trapped. I’ve never felt like a prisoner here. I could’ve chosen to fight Maleagant at every turn, and I’m pretty sure I would’ve _won_. He’s insanely prideful, he’d hate the thought of—” he shakes his head. “It doesn’t matter. What does is that I made my decision. I chose this marriage, and I want you to trust me to know my mind.”

Gods, how much Gawain _wants_ to. He wants to believe the steely conviction in Arthur’s eyes and that no matter the feelings involved there is a reason behind his hopes and beliefs, it’s just—

It’s just that Gawain can’t cast aside the memory of the battle of Cameliard, of burning hatred in Maleagant’s eyes, of his sharp laugh and even sharper words. It seemed as if his need for the throne was battling with the desire to see Arthur’s death, and even if the former won, what _good_ can come from this marriage?

The union with Gore may truly be something Britain needs, but not at the price of sharing the crown and one of the rulers counting days before the demise of another.

Arthur might genuinely like Maleagant and perhaps he’s not entirely wrong to see some good in him, but he’s always believed the best of people, and the price for this disappointment will be too high.

“That day on the battlefield,” Gawain says in his last, most desperate attempt to convince Arthur to at the very least remain _cautious_ instead of lowering his guard. “Maleagant claimed that he’ll make sure you live, but only until the Waiting Year is over. You know how much he wanted the throne and the lengths he was willing to go to have it. He won’t be content with sharing power, don’t trust him so easily…”

Arthur smiles. He _smiles_, his eyes crinkling in the corners as if it’s nothing but a joke to him. There is a soft exasperation in his gaze and a hint of affection, and Gawain doesn’t have the faintest idea of what’s going on in his king’s head, but he thinks—

Gods, he thinks he knows exactly what’s in his _heart_.

“You are falling for him.”

The words sound like an accusation — like a _revelation_ they are — and there is no taking them back.

The smile falls from Arthur’s face. He blinks rapidly, looking lost and unsure, and yet he doesn't outright _deny_ it. He doesn't even look surprised, as if at least on some level he acknowledged the truth.

If Gawain knows anything about his king, it means that the battle he was prepared to fight is already lost.

The way Arthur loves, so fierce and uncompromising, is both the greatest strength and the worst flaw of his heart. It silences the voice of reason and makes him blind to everything that promises disaster.

Gawain feels utterly helpless.

There is so little he can do now. What's left for him is to keep an eye on Maleagant and pray it will be enough to ward his king from the treachery that seems inevitable. He hopes it’s _not_. He hopes he’s _wrong_ and this won’t end in misery for everyone involved.

“Just… I’m begging you, be careful,” he says.

_Don’t let him break your heart_, he doesn’t add, but this is what worries him truly. He may succeed in keeping Arthur safe from his husband’s attempts to harm him, but there is nothing he can do to spare him _pain_ this would bring.

Gawain takes a step forward and clasps Arthur’s shoulder. There isn’t much support he can offer him now, but he wants to _try_.

“I will be,” Arthur promises. “But I’m asking you, my friend, give him a chance. Just like I did. I swear he’s worth it.”

He doesn’t wait for an answer. Turning away, he heads back to the Great Hall to rejoin the celebrations. Gawain follows, but lingers at the doors, watching as Arthur returns to his place beside Maleagant. The newly made king catches him looking, and his answering gaze is hard and distrustful and openly hostile. _Familiar_, for there was a time when Gawain sincerely doubted Maleagant is even capable of any other emotion. And yet—

The memory of the wedding ceremony rises in his mind again, unwanted and too-bright, and this time it’s not Arthur’s expressions he remembers, not how he looked at his husband-to-be, but what he got in _turn_.

Gawain doesn’t know Maleagant. Not enough to read him well, to figure out if his feeling truly changed or if he is a better actor anyone gives him credit for, but he remembers the softness of his eyes, the hint of affection in the pleased curve of his mouth, and maybe that’s enough to sparkle hope that Arthur isn’t _wrong_ this time.

His heart might just be wiser than suspicious minds.

Gawain isn’t a fool. He knows that even if Maleagant truly was able to let go of his hatred towards Arthur, his intentions still cannot be trusted, but—

Arthur asked him to give Maleagant a _chance_, not blind devotion, and this much Gawain is willing to do. He promises himself he will try. He will not lower his guard, he’ll be the voice of reason Arthur sometimes lacks, but he won’t judge and won’t condemn for the crimes that haven’t been committed yet.

From now on, whether he likes it or not, Maleagant of Gore is his king.

Still looking at him, Gawain lowers his head, accepting his submission.

He isn’t sure if Maleagant sees it or recognizes the significance of the gesture, not when he’s distracted by his husband finally joining him at the table. Arthur touches his shoulder, sending him a quick, affectionate smile, and Maleagant’s expression softens and his eyes seem a little warmer.

This isn’t even remotely close to any of the scenarios Gawain imagined before the wedding, but he has to admit it is immensely _better_.

This very moment he’s at peace with the decision he came to.

He clings to the hope that he will never have a reason to regret it.


	8. The Wedding Night

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> let's pretend it didn't take me a month to finish this chapter; writing smut is definitely not my strong suit, but awkward sex is the best sex, so here you go

The taste of wine, sweet and tart, lingers on the root of Arthur’s tongue. It calms his nerves and eases the tension in his chest that’s yet to leave fully. He isn’t drunk and has no plans to change that, following both the physician’s orders and his own desire to stay sober for the wedding night. 

Of course, _ the guests _ aren’t keen on following his lead.

Arthur is fully convinced that at least some of them started drinking way before the beginning of the ceremony, otherwise they won’t be half as pissed as they are now. Vogan is, perhaps, the worst example of all. The poor sod barely keeps on his feet, and yet he’s admirably insistent on flirting with fiercely blushing Percival. 

Shaking his head, Arthur takes another sip of his wine to hide his amusement. He can’t help but wonder just _ how _ Vogan keeps his relatively high position in Gore’s court despite his numerous antics. The likeliest explanation seems that maybe deep in his heart Maleagant is actually _ fond _ of that walking disaster, at least enough to forgive the worst of his crimes. 

“...and then he promptly fell off his horse and landed face-first into the mud.” 

Arthur catches only the ending of Bors’ favorite story, but it’s not like he doesn’t know it by heart. He doesn’t _ remember _ it, not fully, despite being the central figure, and he still doesn’t have the faintest idea of what exactly he was given that day. 

The only thing he knows for sure is that he never experienced anything like that again and he most certainly doesn’t wish to. 

Arthur glances at his husband. Maleagant seems to be listening to the story with rapt attention, his eyes bright with mirth, his cheeks darkened from wine and his lips twitching from laughter he’s too good at holding back. 

“I was _ sixteen_,” Arthur insists, sounding more defensive than he really feels. “And I don’t care what lies you insist on spreading, that wasn’t _ ale_.” 

“Oh, it was,” Bors assures, his bright blue eyes alight with mischief. “From the dwarven casks, no less.” 

“It could be straight from Fairyland, I wouldn’t care,” Arthur mutters. 

He knows there is no point in arguing with his friend. 

“I think I might believe it,” Maleagant drawls, amusement coloring his voice. “If by dwarves you mean Picts. They are, after all, notorious for lacing their drinks with very peculiar herbs.” 

That would actually explain_ a lot. _ Not for the first time Arthur is impressed by the sheer amount of knowledge Maleagant seems to hold, be that the battle tactics or foreign myths or every known land’s traditions. He’d feel inadequate in comparison, but whatever weaknesses he has, his husband will surely be able to compensate for each and every one of them. 

Maleagant meets his gaze, his eyes still amused but oddly gentle. 

“You know, sometimes it’s easy to forget how terribly young you were when you became a king,” he says quietly. 

Arthur wonders if Maleagant is remembering now that fated day, his victory that turned into defeat, the magical sword’s choice that placed the crown on the head of the boy who had no idea what to do with it. 

Arthur wonders if Maleagant has even an inkling of what that boy felt at the time, how he looked with a mix of admiration and envy at the knight so brilliant and noble, so talented with a blade that he easily defeated opponents older and more experienced than him. 

Once, Maleagant had everything Arthur ever desired, but the tables had turned by the fate’s whim. Perhaps with this marriage, they found the right balance. Perhaps they won’t lose it in the years to come.

Arthur doesn’t want to think about lingering bitterness and distrust that he knows Maleagant still keeps in his heart. Those feelings aren’t easy to let go of, but they _ will _ fade in time. They won’t be stronger than their newfound affection.

This is what he chooses to believe. 

Quietly, Arthur watches Maleagant. The way his fingers gently cradle the goblet, the way wine stains his lips with deep red, the way a small smile hides in the corners of his mouth. 

He’s barely eaten this evening, but never refused a drink, and maybe with wine flowing freely he’s trying to smooth away the lingering tension and awkwardness between their people. Arthur isn’t blind to it either. He’s grateful beyond measure to Bors who’s always been good at breaking the ice, to Percival who’s suffering Vogan’s attention, to Gawain who at least tries to rein in the distrust he can’t help but feel. There is no outright hostility in the hall, no open _ conflict_, and some of the nobles — Leodegrance, perhaps, the most notable of them — make no small effort at being perfectly if insincerely courteous. As far as Arthur is concerned, it is a _ start_. It is a far better outcome than he feared to see, but it’s also clear that Maleagant isn’t satisfied by anything but full acceptance. 

And as he’s powerless to change the truth, it’s likely he strives to alter his perception.

Arthur _ knows _ that. He knows that Maleagant’s overindulgence unlikely has anything to do with him, but he can’t exactly help feeling like one of those girls that are deemed too ugly to bed sober. 

In any case, something _ needs _ to be done before his husband is too drunk to stand. 

Arthur stands up noisily, commanding attention. He waits until most guests’ faces are turned to him and their talking dies out. 

“My friends,” he says, raising his voice to carry throughout the hall. “My _ people_. This is a day blessed by the Gods, and I am grateful beyond measure that all of you chose to share it with us.” 

He pauses, waiting for the appreciative roaring of the crowd to subside. 

“There is a whole night ahead of you, which I sincerely hope you will spend drinking and feasting and celebrating, however, I— _ we_,” He glances briefly at Maleagant, noting his evident displeasure but refusing to let it make him falter, “have a night ahead of us as well, and I think it's high time for us to depart to our chambers.” 

Appreciative laughter meets his words, a few yells of approval and a crude suggestion or two. By this point, Arthur is fully convinced that no one truly _ cares _ what they are celebrating, whom he’s wedding and bedding— or if that happens at all. 

He offers his hand to Maleagant to help him stand up, squeezing his fingers in silent reassurance. Maleagant’s gaze is still displeased and hard, his lips are pressed into a thin line and his cheeks are flushed. He must think this whole act _ humiliating_, putting their private matters on display unnecessary, and Arthur doesn’t enjoy this either, but—

He’s also aware that if they wait any longer, the guest will take matters into their hands. The bedding ceremony might not be practiced often these days, but if people are drunk enough, they are quite likely to demand it still, and _ surely _ Maleagant wouldn't want that. 

Still holding Maleagant’s hand, Arthur practically drags him out of the hall, trying to ignore especially lewd suggestions from some of the knights. They are entirely too tempting, and that isn’t something he’s willing to look at closely, at least not right now. 

The courage that led Arthur so far fizzles out the very moment the heavy doors of the Great Hall close behind them, and he’s left feeling a little embarrassed, lost and utterly clueless about what he should do next. 

“I’m sorry,” he blurts. “I should’ve handled the situation better, but you know it was nothing but an act, right? This doesn’t mean we have to…” 

He trails off awkwardly, unsure of what he wants to say. Of course, they don’t _ have to _ see this through, but Arthur wants to. He _ wants _ to, he just doesn’t have the faintest idea of how to let Maleagant know it without coming off entitled or demanding. 

He raises his head. 

Maleagant looks at him silently, his expression closed off and eyes unreadable. A moment later he slowly lowers his head as if acknowledging something. 

“Let’s go then,” his voice sounds oddly low. He looks down the hallway, silent and deserted when even the castle guards joined the celebration. “You will spend this night in my chambers, they are sparser and more fitting the occasion. People will talk if we are seen apart the next morning. We wouldn’t want _ that_.” 

His lips curve into a brief, rather unpleasant smile. 

Arthur swallows heavily. This doesn’t give him much hope, and disappointment settles low in his stomach. They will keep appearances, sure, but he so desperately wishes for their marriage to be _ more _ than that. 

Perhaps he should be more patient. Perhaps it will change in time, but if they don’t even _ try _ now, how can they expect it to simply work out? 

Lowering his head, he finally lets go of Maleagant’s hand. 

“Let’s go then,” he echoes quietly. 

It’s Maleagant’s turn to lead the way now. Silently, Arthur follows him down the hallway and across the west wing, then up the narrow stairs he would’ve probably missed on his own. 

Maleagant’s chambers must be just above his father’s, a privilege of the only heir of an undeniably rich kingdom. Sometimes Arthur can’t help but wonder what pushed his husband to seek the crown of High-King when his inheritance already promised him immense power. But then— 

Then, he thinks he knows the answer to that. 

Maleagant wanted to fight, to conquer, to _ earn_. He wanted to prove himself, be admired for his deeds and not for the fact of his birth. In this, Arthur has no trouble understanding him. 

They pause before the ornate doors. Maleagant takes the key from his belt, unlocks the door, then steps aside to let Arthur in. 

It is the first time Arthur has been allowed into his husband’s private chambers, no matter how much closer they became in the past few months, and he’s curious to finally see it. 

It is a spacious place, well lit from the fireplace’s glow, lived-in and cozy. The floor is covered by a bearskin rug, the cold stone of the walls is hidden under elaborate tapestries, and the bed, while not as big as the one in the royal chambers of Camelot, is more than fitted for two. The colors of the chambers shift from warm brown to dark mossy green. There are numerous books stacked on the chest and the windowsill, and a lone reddish apple sits precariously on the top of the biggest pile. 

This may not be exactly what Arthur imagined, but it certainly suits Maleagant. It is just hard to shake the feeling that guests aren't welcome here and that if not for the need to keep up appearances Maleagant would’ve never invited his husband in. 

It _ stings_, the realization that Arthur’s attraction may very well be one-sided. He’s not ashamed of feelings that blossom in his heart, of burning desire that Maleagant evokes in him. They are _ wed _ now, but— 

Once, too many weeks ago Maleagant asked Arthur if he enjoys the company of men, and yet so far it’s been the only indication that the intimacy between them is something that’s expected. 

They are both men, there is no way to _ prove _ anything to people, and so— 

“Arthur?”

Arthur blinks. Belatedly, he realizes that he’s standing frozen in the center of the room, staring blindly at the bed, too caught in his doubts and conflicting desires. His fingers are toying with the fibula on his shoulder, and the weight of his cloak feels suddenly suffocating. He swallows painfully and turns to meet his husband’s eyes. 

“Will you help me?” he asks, a quiet plea in his voice. 

Maleagant lowers his head. He comes closer to Arthur, his steps light and sure. There is no trace of doubt in his features, and in the soft buttery light of the fireplace, they seem sharp and almost severe. The shadows of his eyelashes fall upon his cheeks, the curve of his mouth is sensual and a little cruel, and there is a tiny forked scar under his lower lip, a sort of perfect imperfection Arthur hasn’t noticed before.

He’s staring and can’t tear his eyes away. 

Pushing Arthur’s hand away, Maleagant deftly unclasps the fibula. He catches the cloak before it slides to the ground, then places it carefully on the bedside chest. His eyes trace the rest of Arthur’s clothes — his breastplate and bracers and gilded chainmail — as if he hadn’t truly noticed them before. 

A small, mocking smile curves his lips. 

“Were you expecting a war?” His fingers outline the intricate ornament etched in the armor, and then reach for the clasps. 

“I wasn’t raised amongst the nobility,” Arthur says. “War is the only thing I’m good at.” 

He’s a decent leader and tactician, he knows his way with a sword. He led his people to numerous victories in their clashes with highlanders, and yet at times of peace he still feels helpless and lost. Learning to become a warlord was easy, but the _ ruling _ is anything but. 

Arthur hasn’t bothered to acquire a ceremonial attire. He thought an armor would suit him just fine, but now it feels bulky and out of place. He wants it _ gone_, no matter how vulnerable this will make him. 

There is no need to defend himself from Maleagant. Not anymore.

Maleagant helps him out of his breastplate and bracers and then the chainmail too. There is only a thin undershirt left, and beneath it is a thick set of bandages, covering the still-healing would. 

Maleagant traces them with his fingertips, his eyebrows pulled together and his mouth curved into a displeased frown. Arthur feels his heart beat faster. He stands still, half afraid to breathe as his husband’s hand slides lower, down the dark red fabric covering Arthur’s thighs.

His fingers crumple the handsewn sigil of a dragon on it. Abruptly and harshly, as if he simply can’t _stand_ the look of it. 

It’s too much. Too _intimate_, Maleagant’s heavy, possessive touch, and Arthur feels a shiver run down his spine. He exhales sharply, and this is all it takes to ruin the moment, to startle Maleagant out of his inexplicable fascination.

He lowers his hand and takes a step back. 

“I think you can manage the rest,” he says. His voice sounds lower than usual, a little bit hoarse, and yet there is no trace of interest coloring it. 

Arthur shuts his eyes for a moment, silently cursing himself for failing to control himself better, even though he knows it wouldn’t have helped. 

Unbuckling the belt, he tears away the fabric and throws it atop of the rest of his clothes. His boots and pants follow suit. The stone floor feels icy cold under his bare feet, and suppressing a shiver, he hurries to step onto the bearskin rug. 

Hesitantly, he sits on the edge of the bed. He’s not sure he’s _ allowed _ to, but he doubts he could make himself ask for permission. After a heartbeat, he finally makes himself look at Maleagant. 

It seems like _ he _ requires no help with undressing. His movements are unhurried, efficient and controlled, and still Arthur is mesmerized by them. He longs for a touch, even innocent and fleeting, but there is nothing left to him but watching. 

And so he watches.

He watches as Maleagant takes off his tunic. He watches as his undershirt rides up, revealing his upper thighs. He watches as his curls fall on his shoulders in beautiful, artful disarray. 

Arthur feels desire ignite low in his stomach. Swallowing heavily, he prays that Maleagant won’t notice how embarrassingly easy it comes at the mere sight of his bared skin. Or maybe that’s something he _ should _ notice and then— 

Maleagant leaves the last of his clothes carefully folded on the chair, then turns towards Arthur, seemingly unbothered by being all but naked in his presence. 

Of course, he has no reason to be. _ Arthur _ has no reason to be, and yet he _ is_, though it has nothing to do with modesty. 

“You can stay until morning,” Maleagant says. “The bed is big enough for us to share. I don’t expect you to…” 

He trails off awkwardly, and this is perhaps the first time Arthur sees his husband at a loss for words. Maleagant’s expression seems a little too open this moment, it’s vulnerable and lost, and somehow that’s enough to reassure Arthur, to give him the strength to cast away his own doubts. 

Maleagant doesn’t expect intimacy between them, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t _ want _ it. He’s a man. He has desires. Arthur is unlikely to get any affection from him, but he wants— 

_ Everything _ that marriage entails. 

Without any doubt, he knows that’s not something he can simply ask for.

“I know there is no need for us to be intimate,” he says quietly. “We certainly won’t be making an heir, but…” 

He pauses for a moment, searching for the right words. 

“I made a vow today. Both of us did. To be faithful to each other. Is this… Do you expect me to uphold it?” 

Arthur’s aware of what he’s doing. He’s never considered himself a manipulative person, but he has to… tread carefully with Maleagant. He’s taking a risk now, hoping that his husband’s pride won’t allow the thought of them breaking their promises, but it’s possible he miscalculated. It’s possible Maleagant will find it convenient to cast aside whatever vows they made and continue their lives as if nothing truly binds them together. 

Arthur has no idea what he’ll do then. He knows he won’t — simply _ can’t _ — betray their marriage like this, but he also cannot in good conscience demand the same from Maleagant. 

Maleagant hesitates. He frowns, the corners of his mouth pull down, and maybe this very moment he’s imagining how it would feel if Arthur were to take someone else — anyone but his husband — to his bed. It’s _ jealousy _ that distorts his features, unmistakable and clear, and even if there is nothing but possessiveness fueling this feeling, Arthur will take it. 

“I do,” Maleagant answers curtly.

“Good.” Arthur doesn’t even try to hide his relief. “I do too. And this is why I…”

Getting to his feet, he takes a few steps forward, and while Maleagant’s gaze turns a little wary, he makes no move to stop him. 

“I want…” Arthur tries again, but words escape him. 

He raises his hand to push a lock of hair behind Maleagant’s ear, allowing himself a fleeting, gentle caress, relishing the feeling of silky soft curls under his fingers. It’s something he dreamed of far too often, even more so than of simpler, carnal things.

“May I?” 

Maleagant kisses him first. He presses his lips to Arthur’s and _ kisses _ him, unhurried and deep and oddly tender. He tastes of wine and bitter herbs, of something honey-sweet, and it feels even better than the moment they shared during their wedding. If only because _ now _ it’s Maleagant choice, his acceptance and his desire. 

Maleagant’s fingers caress Arthur’s face. They trace the curves of his ears and the line of his beard, and then— 

Then, he lays his palms on Arthur’s shoulders and pushes him down, making him stumble back and all but fall onto the bed. The want ignites anew in Arthur’s belly and there is no hiding it now. No _ reason _ to hide it. 

Arthur tugs his husband onto his lap, moaning softly at how tantalizingly _ good _ this feels. Gently, he pulls Maleagant’s hair, making him bare his throat for more kisses. His skin is warm and a little salty, and his pulse beats fast under Arthur’s lips. 

Placing his palms on Maleagant’s hips, Arthur pulls him even closer. He swallows the quiet gasp that falls from his husband’s — his _ lover’s _ — lips, savors its taste and the ones’ that follow. He kisses him, again and again, mixing fleeting, light caresses with deeper, lingering ones. 

The heat in his lower stomach turns scorchingly hot. Arthur feels himself harden all too quickly, light-headed from Maleagant’s closeness, from his taste and his scent, from the way he _ teases _ him, rocking on his lap so merciless and slow. It’s been too long since he shared pleasure with another, _ weeks _ since he first caught himself longing for Maleagant’s touch, and this is almost too much. Half-deliriously, Arthur thinks he can come just like this, in a matter of moments, and it will be _ enough_. 

It _ won’t _ be. And Maleagant most certainly won’t let him. He breaks the kiss and stills, ignoring the quiet moan of disappointment that escapes Arthur’s lips. 

Cradling his face between his palms, he searches for his gaze. 

“Arthur,” he says, his voice hoarse. “_ Arthur_.” 

His eyes are bright and intense, unfairly clear and demanding. Arthur has no idea what Maleagant _ wants _ from him, _ why _ did he stop and _ how _ he isn’t even half as affected by their closeness as Arthur is. 

He hopes he conveys it all in his answering look. 

Maleagant’s lips twitch briefly, a hint of pleased smugness flashes on his face, and _ still _ he makes no move to continue. 

“What is it?” Arthur asks, sounding petulant even for his own ears. 

“Were you with a man before?” A hint of a smile still plays on Maleagant’s lips, but his question sounds entirely serious, and it’s— 

It’s _ endearing_, though probably shouldn’t be so. 

Arthur shakes his head. He wonders if he’s been missing out choosing to sleep with women only but that doesn’t really matter now. He _ knows _ what he wants and his lack of experience can’t change it. 

He suspects Maleagant has enough of it for them both. He’s almost ten years older and certainly had plenty of lovers in the past, and though the thought stirs impotent jealousy in Arthur’s heart, it’s not enough to sour the mood. 

From now on they’ll have no one but each other. 

Maleagant leans in to place a short, almost chaste kiss to Arthur’s upper lip. 

“I’ll make sure you enjoy it,” he says. 

He gets off Arthur’s lap to lie on the bed, stretching out on his back, beautiful and enticing, so unexpectedly, unbelievably _open_. He beckons Arthur closer, half-smile on his lips and a wicked gleam in his eyes.

It’s perfectly clear just _ what _ he wants, and Arthur fails to hide his bemusement. Though in his mind he entertained different fantasies, he never truly expected for his husband to be the one to submit. 

Maleagant’s smile turns a little mocking. 

“You know we aren’t in Rome,” he says. “Their prejudices are their own. We _ are _ equal now. In every way possible.” 

In marital bed, on the battlefield, and on the throne that they’ll share. This isn’t something Arthur wants to argue, he acknowledged and accepted it a while ago. 

“We are,” Arthur agrees. 

He leans down to kiss Maleagant, unhurriedly and gently. Convincing himself to slow down isn’t easy, not when the burning _ want _ in him doesn’t subside, but he wishes to savor these moments. His palm slides down Maleagant’s chest and to his lower belly, fingertips tracing the faint outlines of his ribs and the dip of his navel, and yet he stops just before the touch turns too intimate. 

Maleagant sighs. He pushes himself up to take off his shirt, baring himself without even a hint of hesitation. Arthur doesn’t try to hide his interest. He doesn’t avert his gaze, taking in the sight of his lover, his lean yet powerful body, his dark nipples and sparse hair covering his chest, his flat stomach, his cock, half-hard and begging to be touched. 

Arthur fights a sudden urge to take him into his mouth, to feel the silky smoothness of his heated skin, to _ please _ Maleagant until desire overwhelms him, but— 

He’s never done this before, he’s scared to do something wrong and ruin the moment, and so he pushes the thought away to perhaps revisit it later. 

They will have plenty of time in the years to come. 

Licking his lips briefly, Arthur reaches with his hand to repeat the same caress as before, to trace the same path, though now he feels not the thin fabric of a shirt, but warm naked skin. _ Now _ he doesn’t stop himself until his fingers encircle the base of Maleagant’s cock.

Quiet, shuddering breath escapes Maleagant’s lips. Arthur watches, mesmerized, as his lover’s eyes darken with want, as his belly’s muscles tense and relax. Slowly, almost teasingly so, he strokes Maleagnant’s cock just the way he likes it himself, applying just enough pressure to make it feel good, keeping his touch light enough for anticipation to build up. 

Maleagant is silent, but his breaths are coming quicker, his body trembles, responsive and eager. 

Arthur’s hard. Almost painfully so, and yet his own pleasure barely matters, when everything he can think of is what Maleagant feels. If he likes it, _ them_, if this is something he won’t regret. 

Shifting up the bed, Arthur leans down to press his lips to Maleagant’s neck. He places small kisses along his throat, nibbles on his skin, never ceases his caress, still languidly slow and light. He doesn’t rush and he doesn’t stop until the first, sweet sound of pleasure escapes Maleagant’s lips. 

Squeezing his eyes shut, Maleagant arches his back and curses briefly. 

“_Stop_,” he says. “That’s enough.” 

Arthur complies, although reluctantly so. He sits back, allowing Maleagant a moment to catch his breath, watches as he licks his lips and blinks at the ceiling, and then rolls onto his side to take out a glass vial that was hidden somewhere amongst the pillows. 

Arthur feels his mouth go dry and his throat tighten. The nervous tension that seemed to subside for a while is back in full force. He doesn’t feel ready. He _ knows _ what to do, but only in theory, and Maleagant deserves so much more than his fumbling attempts. It’s the only thing Arthur can offer him right now and he fears that it won’t be enough.

His worry doesn’t seem to escape his husband’s attention. Maleagant sends him a small smile and his eyes seem to soften, and yet he offers no reassurance as he places the vial into Arthur’s hands. 

“Just… tell me if I do something wrong, alright?” Arthur says quietly. 

Maleagant’s lips twitch as if he’s laughing at the very idea of keeping silent.

“I will,” he promises. 

Arthur feels a little scared. He feels confused and oddly vulnerable, nervous and just a little eager, and there is no _ control _ left in his hands, he gave it all to his lover. He places a soft kiss to Maleagant’s bent knee, strokes tender skin of his inner thighs, coaxing them open. 

Arthur’s fingers are rigid and clumsy as he unclasps the vial, barely managing not to spill the oil on the covers. He feels like he’s fifteen again, completely _ ridiculous _ before the lover he so desperately wishes to impress. 

Maleagant isn’t laughing. He watches Arthur, his eyes patient and gentle, and yet it is _desire _ in them that’s truly reassuring. It gives just enough courage to go on. 

Stretching on his side, Arthur slips his hand between Maleagant’s thighs. 

“Alright?” he asks.

Maleagant just nods. His expression is relaxed when Arthur pushes his slick hand behind his balls and slowly slides the first finger in, much easier than he anticipated, and he can’t help but wonder if maybe Maleagant wanted the night to end up this way, _ prepared _ for it. The thought is inexplicably arousing. 

Placing a reassuring kiss on Maleagant’s shoulder, Arthur adds a second finger, carefully stretching the tight muscles and trying to find the right rhythm. 

Maleagant’s palm covers his slightly softened cock to stroke it back to hardness, to drown in pleasure whatever discomfort he feels. He doesn’t look like he particularly enjoys himself, but there is no pain written on his features, and so Arthur doesn’t withdraw.

He prepares Maleagant the best he can, a bit clumsy, perhaps, but he receives no complaints. He would wish it to be a little less awkward, a little more sensual, but—

It may be imperfect, but _real_. Arthur likes it that way. 

“Wait,” Maleagant interrupts him moments later. “I’m ready. Come here.”

He meets Arthur’s gaze and curves his lips into half a smile. His eyes are dark, pupils blown wide, the look of them is slightly hazy and amused and _terribly_ _enticing_. Hurriedly, Arthur sits up to take off his shirt, wincing as his too-sharp movement stirs familiar ache around his wound. 

“Don’t strain yourself,” Maleagant comments dryly, though there is no hiding faint concern that laces his words. 

Arthur shakes his head, unable to hold back a smile. He’s _ fine_. His wound has been healing nicely, and maybe he’s not in his best shape yet, there is no reason for worry. 

Maleagant’s heated gaze slides down Arthur’s body, from his bandaged chest and to his hard, flushed cock. He seems to enjoy what he sees, and so Arthur doesn’t feel shy when he takes the discarded vial to slick himself. The first touch feels almost too good, but he bites back the moan and doesn’t slow down, strokes himself until his fist slides nice and easy. 

Maleagant shifts to put one of the pillows under his lower back, propping himself up to allow a better angle, and it’s such a clear invitation that Arthur doesn’t hesitate to follow. Lying atop of him, he closes his eyes for a moment, overwhelmed by their closeness, by the feeling of skin pressed to skin. 

Maleagant tugs him into a kiss, slow and oddly calming, his fingers encircle Arthur’s cock and guide him between his legs. Arthur makes a sound at the back of his throat that sounds too close to whining when the heat, the tightness of his lover’s body feel almost unbearable, almost _ painful_. 

He presses his forehead to Maleagant’s and breathes through his nose, willing himself to calm down. 

“Everything’s fine?” Maleagant murmurs into his ear, his fingers toying with short hair on Arthur’s nape in a soothing, mindless caress. 

Arthur chuckles helplessly. It’s _ him _ who should be asking this question, it’s him who has to take care of his lover, but his mind is a mess and his body is overwhelmed with want, and— 

_ Thinking _ is a little too hard. 

“Perfect,” he manages to say. 

Placing a brief kiss to the corner of Maleagant’s mouth, he finally starts moving, his thrust careful and shallow and torturously slow. He tries to soothe every wince he catches on Maleagant’s face with even more kisses and buries in them small, helpless moans of pleasure that spill from his lips. 

Squeezing his thighs, Maleagant slips his hand between their bodies to touch his own cock, to stroke it in the rhythm of Arthur’s thrusts. The air between them feels too hot, almost suffocating. Maleagant’s lips are parted and his breaths are uneven, his throat is bared for kisses, skin slick and salty from sweat. 

Arthur’s muscles tremble. He feels an echo of pain in his side, but it’s so faint he’s not sure if it’s real. He feels the pleasure that’s almost too much, a string of tension pulled tightly and ready to snap. He’s already close to the edge, embarrassingly fast, and it takes all of his willpower to balance on it, to remember that he should— 

What _ is _ the thing he needed to remember? 

Bracing himself on his shaky arms, Arthur catches Maleagant’s lips in a kiss, messy and deep and desperate. If there was any rhythm he _ lost _ it, his thrusts are erratic, he’s chasing his pleasure with abandon, but it’s still not _ enough_. He still can’t let himself— 

“Gods, Arthur,” Maleagant exhales, an odd sound somewhere between a moan and a laugh. “It’s not a contest. Let _ go _.” 

The climax hits Arthur unexpectedly. The pressure coiled tightly in his lower belly finally releases, and relief feels so sharp it can barely be called pleasure. He manages to bite back a curse, but not a helpless, wanton moan. His hips jerk as he spends himself inside of Maleagant, his arms tremble so badly he barely keeps himself from falling. 

Pressing his forehead to Maleagant’s shoulder, Arthur takes a deep shuddering breath. His mind is blank, but his body won’t let him rest. As his pleasure gradually dims, he feels dull ache starting to spread through his side, distracting and persistent, though not sharp enough to raise true worry. 

With a wince, Arthur slips out of Maleagant and rolls onto his side. No matter how exhausted he feels, they aren’t finished yet. Maleagant is still hard, his balls are tight and a drop of precome glistens on the tip of his cock. The sight of it is all it takes for Arthur’s interest to sparkle anew, and while it may have nothing to do with physical desire, it’s _ powerful _ all the same. 

“Good gods, you’re so beautiful,” he exhales, unable to stop himself. 

Maleagant huffs a laugh, but it’s quick to turn into a moan as Arthur’s fingers encircle his cock, gentle yet firm. 

“I want you to…” Arthur whispers, his lips grazing the shell of Maleagant’s ear. “I want you to feel just as good as I did. Better. I…”

He abandons the words. He doesn’t have enough of them, eloquence to please his lover, but his fingers are nimble and deft. Maleagant is _ close_, and it won’t take much to bring him to the edge. Just a few strokes, a few deep and lingering kisses, a flicker of a tongue along the curve of his ear. Arthur slips his thumb under Maleagant’s balls to massage still sensitive spot. He doesn’t stop his caress, he gives his lover everything he has. 

Maleagant bits his lip to stifle a moan. He arches his back and thrusts into Arthur’s fist and then he _ comes_, too short, but the pleasure is written clearly on his features. It is a beautiful sight, the one Arthur wishes to savor and commit to his memory. It feels like the best part of this night to see Maleagant like this, so vulnerable and open. Arthur promises himself to cherish this moment forever, hoping against hope that he’ll have a chance to repeat it. 

He meets Maleagant’s eyes, hazy and soft and maybe a little tired, and sends him a small smile. His body protests when he sits up and then stands, his muscles still trembling and weak, but he stubbornly makes himself reach the basin of water he spotted earlier. He wets the cloth he finds beside it, warms it between his palms before returning to the bed.

Maleagant doesn’t say anything as he lets Arthur wipe away semen from his belly and between his thighs, just watches him silently, his eyes half-closed and a hint of a smile playing on his lips. After it’s finished, he takes away the cloth to throw it carelessly somewhere on the floor. 

“I’ll take care of it later,” he murmurs at Arthur’s questioning gaze. “Now…”

He trails off. 

_ What now? _Arthur swallows heavily. Their night together, their intimacy ended, and he’d be a fool to believe it simply solved everything. He doesn’t like the way Maleagant’s gaze sharpens as the last drops of pleasure leave his eyes, doesn’t like the doubt that replaces his satisfied contentment, but he has no idea how to fight it. 

“Now… to sleep?” he asks hesitantly. 

Maleagant nods slowly. 

He allows Arthur to tug the covers from under him and then lies onto the bed half a foot away. He doesn’t say anything at all, just rolls onto his side, his back to Arthur. A clear enough dismissal. 

Swallowing disappointment, Arthur shifts closer to place a kiss between Maleagant’s shoulder blades, then gently pushes his hair away to leave another one on the back of his neck. 

“Goodnight,” he whispers. 

Covering them both, he tugs Maleagant into a loose embrace, easy enough to escape if he’d wish to. He doesn't. He just tenses for a moment, but then slowly relaxes, and while he doesn’t say anything back, he covers Arthur's palm with his and intertwines their fingers. 

For now, that is enough.


	9. The Morning After

Maleagant wakes up to the warmth of sunlight on his skin shining brightly through the blinds he foolishly left open. Scrunching his nose, he buries his face in Arthur’s shoulder, somewhat envious of his ability to sleep so tightly. 

Though Maleagant’s mind is still sluggishly slow, he feels already awake and surprisingly well-rested. For a while, he doesn’t even think about moving. The warmth of Arthur’s body next to him is pleasant and comforting, the sounds of his even breaths punctuated by tiny, barely-there snores are oddly soothing. 

Maleagant isn’t used to sharing his bed with someone else, can’t even remember if he truly did that before, but he finds that he enjoys it far more than he thought he would. This change he can accept quite easily, it’s all of the others that bother him truly. 

Carefully, trying not to wake Arthur up, Maleagant untangles them, then rolls onto his back for a good stretch. He feels a faint, dull ache somewhere in his lower back, his muscles are slightly sore, but neither of that is hard to ignore if he’d wish to. He doesn’t. It seems like a pleasant reminder that the last night indeed happened. 

In truth, Maleagant didn’t really believe they would end up consummating their marriage, even if a part of him couldn’t help but hope for it. Even if he had plenty of reasons to think it possible. 

Things _changed_ between them during the past few weeks, and he wasn’t exactly blind to Arthur’s growing attraction. He noticed his looks and casual, fleeting touches, _ want _ that sometimes darkened his eyes. 

It wasn’t surprising. Maleagant could hardly be called ugly, and Arthur, young and relatively healthy, was all but bound to discover desire for the only familiar person he’d seen in weeks. There was nothing _ odd _ in their mutual attraction, but— 

Last night felt like something _ more_. It felt _ intimate _ in a way Maleagants was completely unfamiliar with. It may have been far from perfect, a little bit awkward, a little bit painful, but he _ did _ enjoy it thoroughly. His _ soul _ much more than his body. 

Turning his head, Maleagant takes a moment to simply look at Arthur. His dark eyelashes cast faint shadows on his cheeks, his soft lips are slightly parted, and he looks so terribly _ young _ in his sleep. He’s just a boy, affectionate and sweet, and Maleagant wants nothing else but to lean closer and kiss him awake, but he’s not sure if he’s _ allowed _ to. 

Not by _ Arthur, _ for he was perfectly clear about his desires last night, but by Maleagant himself. Their marriage may have made them equal in every way that matters, but they are still standing on uneven ground. Arthur didn’t have to unearth himself to accept his union, to bury his hatred and swallow his pride to admit he may actually _ like _ the very same person he used to detest. 

He may have genuine affection for Maleagant, may truly _ want _ him, content for the time being with an available partner, but _ he _ won’t break when everything inevitably falls apart and every promise they’ve made turns into ashes. 

Maleagant can’t grow dependent on Arthur. He can’t allow himself to believe that their marriage can possibly turn into something more than a simple agreement, even when there is mutual pleasure involved. He certainly won’t — _ can’t _ — be the first to fall. 

Squeezing his eyes shut, Maleagant exhales through his nose. He _ hates _ these thoughts, these impotent and futile struggle with his own emotions, these _ fears _ he can’t quite admit even in the privacy of his mind. 

With an effort, he manages to cast them aside, unwilling to ruin at least this morning.

Maleagant props himself up on the pillows and reaches for the book he left on the bedside chest. It’s Aristotle’s “Politics”, he notes with mild displeasure, the book that will likely put him back to sleep, but he won’t risk waking his husband up trying to find something a little bit more entertaining. 

_ Husband_. 

The word still sounds so unfamiliar, so foreign, and Maleagant doubts he’ll _ ever _ get used to it. 

Ignoring this thought too, Maleagant opens the book where he left it and stares at the ornate greek text, for a brief moment feeling as if he’s forgotten the language completely. 

Although, Arthur, if his confession is to be believed, haven’t studied it at all. 

_ Five years _ have passed since he took the crown, and surely _ someone _ should’ve cared enough to give him a proper education, the one that Uther’s only heir deserved. Arthur may be a talented swordsman, a brilliant tactician, he’s just and he’s _ good_, but those are, for the most part, his natural talents. 

He barely knows latin and doesn’t understand politics, he has no knowledge of his own kingdom’s history and traditions, and that has already served to play a cruel joke on him. _ Britain _ won’t suffer for that, no matter what some people want to believe, but it’s only a matter of time before Arthur’s poor education becomes a much bigger problem. 

It’s true that they have a war ahead of them, but even at times of war, a good king needs to be _ more _ than a chieftain. _ They _ are not barbarians. 

Maleagant frowns. He supposes he is capable of making up for Arthur’s possible mistakes, he can _ teach _ him those things he doesn’t yet know. He doesn’t suffer fools gladly and won’t be blamed for not caring enough about his kingdom. 

They can be _ good _ together. Maleagant has always strived to be a perfect king. He spent numerous nights buried in books and manuscripts, studying languages and strategies and politics. He has plenty of knowledge and wit where his darling husband has… _ love _ and people’s acceptance. He had the _ image _ of a king Maleagant has always wished to become. 

He still remembers the time when he wanted to show people of Britain just how _ pathetic _ Arthur was, how far from being perfect, how undeserving of the crown he wore. 

Maleagant _ failed_, but maybe it’s for the best. He may be jealous still, but now it is his duty to _ cover _ his husband’s every weakness instead of exposing it. 

Unwilling to dwell on these thoughts too long, Maleagant shifts his attention back to the book. It’s not a sort of text that can be read leisurely, without writing out dates and places or analyzing every other line, and Maleagant knows he’s mostly wasting his time trying to get through it, and yet that is what he does. 

The sun rises higher than the treetops by the time Arthur finally stirs, slowly waking up. He rolls onto his side and hugs Meleagant’s thigh, presses his face against his side, then yawns, his breath tickling too-sensitive skin. Meleagant lowers his hand on Arthur’s head, gently ruffling his hair. 

Arthur raises his eyes at him, still hazy from sleep and impossibly soft. He _ smiles_, like the sight of Maleagant is the best thing he could ask for. 

“Good morning,” Maleagant greets, a hint of an answering smile on his lips. 

“Morning,” Arthur shifts up to peer at the book, scrunching his nose in disappointment when he spots incomprehensible Greek. “What are you reading?”

“Nothing you can yet understand.” 

Implications of that “_yet_” clearly escape Arthur’s sleepy mind, so he’s in for an unpleasant surprise. Maleagant _ will _ see to his education, whether his darling husband wants that or not. Closing the book and leaving it on the edge of the bed, he finally gets to his feet and lifts his arms, stretching still sore muscles. He sees no point in feeling any shame about being naked in front of the man he’s already slept with, and it is— _ pleasing _ to feel Arthur’s gaze following the lines of his body. Much less pleasing though is _ concern _ overwhelming that faint sparks of desire.

“Are you alright?” Arthur asks hesitantly. 

His eyes seem to linger on Maleagant’s hip, right where a small bruise blossoms under his skin. There is a speck of semen right under, the one he missed last night. Cringing internally, Maleagant scrapes it away, then raises his eyes to meet Arthur’s. 

“I’m not made of glass,” he says, a hint of mockery in his voice. He feels a little exasperated, albeit _ fondly _ so, quite capable of appreciating his lover’s genuine care. 

It is comforting to have it affirmed, and yet it’s not enough to soothe the lingering worry that coils tightly in Maleagant’s heart, the one he can’t really _explain_ but it bothers him all the same. 

He fishes from the mess of covers and furs his rumpled undershirt and puts it on, much more concerned with morning chill than preserving his modesty. Circling the bed, he sits right next to Arthur and catches his gaze, still wary and maybe even a little sheepish. 

“Now, what’s bothering you exactly?” The curve of Maleagant’s lips barely resembles a smile, and there is nothing gentle in his voice, but he— tries. 

He tries something he’s never been good at, and maybe he fails once again, at least it seems Arthur doesn’t mind _ that_. 

“I am…” Arthur hesitates for a moment, gathering all the courage he has to continue. “I’m just concerned if the last night was— if you _ enjoyed _ it. I know I wasn’t exactly—” 

He shrugs, endearingly embarrassed by whatever failures he imagined himself. Maleagant can’t hold back a small chuckle. It would be foolish to deny he _ did _ have far more skillful lovers, but— 

More often than not his encounters were impersonal and fleeting and lacking even resemblance of true intimacy. It was about the pleasure of the flesh, the quicker the better, and he’s never been particularly fond of touching strangers any more than was absolutely necessary. 

_ Arthur _ isn’t a stranger. He hasn’t been for a very long time, and Maleagant got _ used _ to their closeness, to touching him and being touched by him. It didn’t make his skin crawl, it didn’t make him want to _ stop, _ and that alone made a difference. 

It was more than enough to compensate for the inevitable awkwardness of their first time. 

“I did enjoy it,” Maleagant assures. “I enjoyed _ you_.” 

He was pleased to discover just how much Arthur wanted him, unashamed of his desire, how much he cared to impress him, to _ give _ and not just take. 

They will have plenty of time to learn how to pleasure each other, to get past Arthur’s inexperience or whatever insignificant mistakes he seems to be too focused on. Maleagant may not be the most sentimental man, but he’s still capable of appreciating the genuine willingness to make this work. 

The rest will come easily. 

“Alright,” Arthur nods. He seems relieved, although his smile looks a little unsure. “Wouldn’t want you to be stuck with a terrible lover for the rest of your life.” 

It's a reminder of the conversation they had last night, their mutual admission that they both expected fidelity in their marriage. Maleagant didn’t foresee such an outcome, didn’t even _ think _ of this before. He decided quite firmly that he won’t push the intimacy between them, but he wasn’t prepared to how _ painful _ it would feel to imagine Arthur seeking pleasure on the side. 

In truth, it’s hard for Maleagant to see their union as something that will truly last for the rest of their lives, leaving them no other choice but to learn to live together, to build something _ meaningful._ They _ do _ that even now, and yet— 

“You mean for the rest of _ your _ life,” he voices the quip that sits on the edge of his tongue, just to distract himself from the thoughts he’s not sure he’s ready to deal with, but he _ regrets _ it just a heartbeat later. 

It’s nothing but a joke if made in poor taste, and yet the Waiting Year has already started and Maleagant did imply not once that he may be counting days until he’s rid of his husband. It’s what a good half of Arthur’s knight think to this day, it’s what— 

Arthur himself doesn’t believe for a moment. He simply shakes his head and laughs, as if he truly _ trusts _ Maleagant. 

“I promise to try and not give you an incentive to hurry its end,” he says lightly, but somehow it sounds no less important than the vows they exchanged. 

_ This _ promise he offers willingly. 

Maleagant purses his lips and keeps silent, unable to continue this seemingly harmless banter when the topic feels so _ heavy _ to him. Getting up, he heads to the water basin next to the window. He needs to freshen up, but more than that, to wash away the feelings written on his face that will surely betray his heart’s turmoil. The water is so cold Maleagant’s fingers ache and his body shivers, but at least it manages to clear his mind. 

He combs through his matted curls with his fingers, then rubs his prickly chin, contemplating if he needs to shave anytime soon. Perhaps he will follow his husband’s example and grow a beard. 

Maleagant is perfectly aware that Arthur is watching him but deliberately pays him no attention until he hears a disappointed sigh and rustling of the covers. A moment later though it’s joined by the sound of stomach’s rumbling. 

With an amused huff, Maleagant turns to Arthur and meets his vaguely apologetic gaze. It is no wonder the boy is hungry, he barely ate during the feast when most of the food was too rich for his still-healing body. 

Maleagant will have to ask the kitchens to prepare something lighter, and for now— 

He takes the apple sitting atop of his books and tosses it to Arthur, fully expecting him to catch it easily, but it seems like his darling husband isn’t fully awake yet. He hesitates a moment too long and the apple smacks him right in the forehead before falling innocently onto his lap. 

Maleagant certainly wasn’t _ planning _ on that, thinking himself above such primitive humor, but the look of utter confusion on Arthur’s face is too hilarious to hold back laughter. It falls from Maleagant’s lips freely, it sounds _ carefree _in a way it hadn’t for a very long time. Arthur joins him a moment later, rubbing his forehead in mild embarrassment. 

It’s easy then to follow his whim. Still chucking, Maleagant heads back towards the bed, cradles Arthur’s face between his palms and presses his lips right to where the apple hit him. 

Arthur hugs his thighs, tugging him closer, generously offering his warmth. 

“Come back to bed,” he says. “It’s still early.” 

It’s _not_. It must be nearing midday, but Maleagant doubts anyone in the castle is awake after last night’s feast, and so he doesn’t waste his breath on disagreements. He readily joins Arthur in their bed, doesn’t hesitate for too long before accepting his embrace. It’s cozier that way, much warmer too, and Maleagant _ does _ hate the chill enough not to question himself on that. 

Rolling the apple in his palm, Arthur brings it to his mouth and sinks his teeth into reddish-gold skin. He eats with gusto, fully focused on the task, and Maleagant takes these moments to simply watch him, the youthful beauty of his features and the sleepy openness of his expression. 

Could he ever imagine having such things in his life? 

Maleagant never dreamed. He set his goal and then did anything in his power to reach it. He was determined to win the throne, to marry Guinevere, but he’s never fantasised of the life he’d have if he’s successful. Would there be mornings like this, full of warmth and gentle teasing and closeness? 

Somehow, he doubts that. Much as he was charmed by Guinevere, he’s never seen them as _ equal _, and at least in that regard he’s grateful he married a man. The very same man he sought to kill less than three months ago, but somehow the thought no longer bothers him as much as it probably should. 

“Do you have any thoughts on what we should do next?” he asks when Arthur finally finishes eating his apple. 

Leaving the core on the chest, he places his palm on the back of Maleagant’s head and threads his fingers through his hair.

“Today or…?” he asks a moment later. 

“Tomorrow. In a week. For the rest of our lives.” 

What they should do _ today _ is clear. Maleagant strongly suspects they will spend the better half of the day idling in his chambers, and the rest of their time avoiding the knights all too eager to offer both their congratulations and unsolicited advice. There will be some condolences too, and Maleagant wants to hear them even less. 

It’s no wonder he has no desire to leave his rooms any time soon. 

“Well…” Arthur frowns slightly, seemingly deep in thought. His fingers still stroke Maleagant’s hair, his touch gentle and soothing, and it feels unexpectedly _ good_. Caught in this feeling, Maleagant almost misses Arthur’s next words. “I think we’ll have to wait for a while until our people finish celebrations. I’ve heard Bors is itching for a good hunt, but— In a week or so, I suppose we’ll be ready to head back to Camelot. I’ve neglected by responsibilities enough, and Merlin is— _ not pleased_.” 

He scrunches his nose, obviously annoyed by the druid’s nagging. They both know the old man is _ right_, but Maleagant too can’t help but feel a little defensive. 

“You do realize that you’ve never been my prisoner? I took you here…” because he thought Arthur _ his _ from the moment he accepted the offer, “...because you were wounded and needed a healer, and unlike Camelot Gore was close enough for you to survive the journey. Still, marriage or not, I couldn’t exactly _ hold _ you in my castle.” 

He _ implied _ that he could, gave the illusion of power he didn’t actually possess, but Arthur doesn’t look surprised by his admission. 

Maybe he’s never believed it in the first place. 

“I know,” Arthur says, his expression perfectly calm. “Much as I know that while taking back my offer would be _ dishonorable_, plenty of people would see past that.” 

Maleagant wills himself not to tense up. Arthur isn’t _ wrong_. Their agreement _ was _ considered sacred, but so was the promise of Guinevere’s hand. Maleagant has no doubt that all witnesses on Arthur’s side wouldn’t have faulted him if he decided to back off. They would’ve convinced themselves that the offer didn’t really count when it was made without the knowledge of what it truly means. 

Of course, Maleagant could have demand honoring the tradition and his people would’ve surely taken his side, but at the end of the day, it would’ve been just as useless as declaring his right for the throne. 

The only difference is that fighting for _ Arthur’s hand _ would be much more humiliating. 

If Arthur showed him even that he was truly _ disgusted _ with the prospect of their marriage, Malegant would’ve— he would’ve withdrawn his claim. Perhaps not for the reason that it would be the right and honorable thing to do, but because he never _ wanted _ that in the first place, wouldn’t pay for the shared throne with a constant reminder of how hated and despicable he is. 

That’s not how it turned out. Arthur took this whole mess of a situation in stride, he was willing to consider their marriage a mutually beneficial union, he left behind everything that went wrong between them with startling ease. He tried to build something truly meaningful, but— 

Maleagant isn’t sure if the shaky, rotten foundation of their relationship will hold. 

“Besides,” Arthur adds a few moments later. “I needed time to recover, and your kingdom is a beauty to behold. I’m glad I had a chance to see it for myself. And— to get to know you.” 

He turns to meet Maleagant’s eyes, his smile shy and his gaze full of affection. Maleagant still doesn’t know how to answer — how _ accept _ it — and so he chooses a route that’s familiar and safe. He closes off. 

“Do you think you _ know _ me now?” he asks dryly. 

He folds his lips into a wry, lopsided smile, as if to show how utterly _ ridiculous _ it sounds, but— 

Deep down he _ wants _ it to be true. He wants Arthur to _ know _ him, his affection to be born of something real and not of whatever illusions he created. 

Arthur shakes his head. 

“No, I don’t think I do,” he says. “Not _ yet_, but maybe I’m starting to. I’m—” 

He pauses, hesitating to voice his thoughts. 

With a quiet sigh, Maleagant untangles himself from Arthur’s embrace and sits on the edge of the bed. It’s _ easier _ this way, if only because it doesn’t make him feel so awfully _ vulnerable_. 

“I’m glad we had time before our marriage,” Arthur finally says. “And I’m glad that the memory of the wedding is a happy one.” 

_ Happy _ isn’t the word Maleagant would’ve chosen. The ceremony was tense and a little humiliating, and yet he can’t exactly disagree with Arthur either. Between the two of them, it felt— _ right _. 

“Speaking of…” Arthur shifts up, propping himself up on the pillows to face Maleagant once again. “I was wondering before, what’s Leodegrance’s deal?”

“I beg your pardon?” Maleagant raises his eyebrows. 

“I couldn’t help but notice, he was awfully generous with his flattery. Especially considering your history.” 

Maleagant grimaces, unable to hide his distaste for said history, but more than that he feels surprised that Arthur even noticed the change of Leodegrance’s tone. It may have been obvious, and Arthur isn’t actually _ bad _ at reading people, but— 

He tends to see better in people, and maybe one day he will suffer for that. 

“That he was,” Maleagant agrees. “And the reason for that isn’t complicated. If anyone truly needed our marriage, it’s _ him_. He has nothing to lose from this union and plenty to gain. He’s an opportunist. He may be on your side now, but only because it suits his interests.” 

“I see,” The frown settles between Arthur’s eyebrows. “I think I can see that. I remember he was the first one to acknowledge my right to the throne… And he was also the last one to lose to _you_.” 

Without a doubt, the outcome would’ve been quite different if _ Leodagrance _ had been the winner. He was too eager to discredit Maleagant and deny his victory, just as he was eager to push his king into the trap that he foolishly made for himself. 

Maybe Maleagant is too quick with his judgement, maybe Arthur isn’t completely blind to other people’s faults, he’s just— 

Kind, ready to give second chances, unwilling to condemn for mistakes of the past. 

Maleagant knows he should be grateful for that, but a part of him is still convinced that one day Arthur will see the truth of him, and then— 

Then, even his kindness won’t be enough to accept it. 

For all of his arrogance and pride, Maleagant doesn’t believe himself without a fault. He’s perfectly aware of his terrible temper and dismissive attitude, his too-sharp tongue that often makes his teasing hurtful. He knows that he’s too self-centered to be a good partner or even a friend, and he understands people’s unwillingness to get closer to him. It angers him and hurts him, but he _ understands _. 

Unlike all those instances when he was scorned for the actions that weren’t _ wrong _. 

That’s why he _ does _ appreciate that Arthur seems to acknowledge his victory in the fated tournament and the right that came with it. Perhaps it wasn’t enough for him to give up the throne willingly, but Maleagant never truly expected that. 

He just wishes the memories of that day didn’t bring him shame. He _ hates _ thinking of how easily he lost control then, how laughable he was all but _ begging _ the knights not to dismiss him with such offensive ease. 

“Right before you came to your ally’s rescue,” Maleagant says, trying to distract himself from unwanted thoughts. “Leodegrance was ready to submit. _ I _ was willing to withdraw my forces and relinquish my claim to his lands on one simple condition. I wanted his daughter’s hand in marriage, and he _ agreed _ to this. Of course, I can’t demand it _ now_.” 

Maleagant smiles a little wryly, surprised how little anger he feels, how easy it feels to discuss one of his biggest losses with the man who _ caused _ it. 

“His daughter…” Arthur murmurs. He lowers his eyes to his hands, flexes his fingers and then wills them to relax. “I didn’t know you were engaged. That you... already had someone in mind.” 

Maleagant’s smile turns slightly mocking. 

“I _ did _ tell you I wasn’t actually planning on accepting you offer,” he says. “Even if it promised me the crown.” 

This doesn’t sound reassuring in the slightest, but Arthur is _ jealous _ and Maleagant can’t help but wish to fuel it further. He wants to see for himself that his husband isn’t _ perfect_, that he isn’t always rational and calm and forgiving. 

That he’s just a man. 

“That… Guinevere,” the name sounds as if it pains Arthur to say it. He raises his eyes, wide and searching and full of too-raw emotions. “Did you have feelings for her?” 

Maleagant’s smile dims. He wanted to provoke Arthur, not to _ hurt _ him. Who would’ve thought this stupid boy would be naive enough to believe a union like this could be based on _ love_? 

It’s true that Maleagant wasn’t interested in marrying Guinevere for her dowry, but saying there were any feelings involved would be too generous. 

With a sigh, Maleagant shifts closer to Arthur, takes one of his hands and gently squeezes his fingers. 

“She’s young and beautiful. She’s a good match.” It may not be particularly soothing either, but Maleagant doesn’t wish to lie. “I wanted to have her. I _ desired _ her, but I most certainly didn’t _ love _ her.”

He didn’t even _ know _ her. 

Arthur nods, accepting the answer, but the tension doesn’t leave him. 

Maleagant sighs again. 

“_You_,” he places a kiss on Arthur’s bare shoulder, “are young and beautiful as well. Much better match, I don’t think anyone could argue with that. And I do hope our night together showed you that I’m not exactly immune to your dubious charm.” 

Arthur huffs a quiet laugh. He seems to finally relax, perhaps realizing how truly unfounded his worries are. 

“It was meant to be nothing but a political alliance, Arthur,” Maleagant says. “And if it’s any consolation, I don’t think Guinevere even _ liked _ me that much.” She was courteous and polite in the beginning, seemingly suited for the role of his wife, but it didn’t escape his attention how _ wary _ she looked once their union was mentioned. “I sincerely doubt we could’ve had a loving marriage, although the prospect of it wasn’t half as disastrous as Leodegrance tried to paint it.” 

After all, Maleagant didn’t _ force _ his agreement, and the offer from his side was generous enough. 

“I’m sure it was easier for him to pretend I’m some sort of…” _ monster _, “dragon who came to steal his precious princess.” 

He rolls his eyes at the ridiculous comparison that sounds a little too dramatic even for his tastes, but at least it seems to amuse Arthur. He smiles, wide and genuine, his eyes crinkling at the corners. 

“I actually think it’s fitting,” he says. “You’d make a _ perfect _ dragon.” 

“Isn’t that _ your _ sigil?” Maleagant raises his eyebrows, smirking faintly. 

Or maybe Arthur is supposed to _ tame _ the beast? 

“Besides,” he continues. “If I were a dragon, I suppose you’d be a much better target for stealing. Your armor seems to be awfully shiny these days, and you must know no dragon can miss all of this gilded nonsense.” 

Arthur actually _ pouts _. 

“It’s not like I chose it myself,” he mutters, sounding somewhat offended, but there is mirth in his eyes that makes it hard to believe he was hurt by the words.

“It suits you,” Maleagant assures. “Looks very kingly.” 

“Why I have a distinct feeling you are laughing at me?” 

“That’s because I am.” 

Maleagant _ doesn’t_, at least not aloud, but the smile that blossoms on his lips is open and sincere. He genuinely enjoys those rare moments between them when mutual teasing doesn’t hurt in the slightest, when there is no need to double-check every word in fear it could be taken wrong. 

In these moments Arthur looks at him with affection that’s all too easy to mistake for something more meaningful. In these moments it feels like this marriage can actually _ work_. But— 

Maleagant isn’t that kind of person and he can’t change for Arthur. He’s difficult and he’s bitter, he’s never been able to enjoy life in its fullness. There is always _ something _ ruining his fleeting happiness, doubts and fears and lingering hurts. It’s happening even now. He feels the mood souring rapidly and can’t do anything to stop it. 

Right now Arthur is making an effort for them, right now he’s _ hopeful_, but it won’t be long before he realizes that whatever Maleagant can offer him at his best won’t compensate for the misery he’ll inflict at his worst. 

“I’m still hungry,” Arthur complains, interrupting a thoroughly unpleasant line of Maleagant’s thoughts. He’s half convinced it is deliberate. “We should find the servants. And maybe— clean up the mess if just a little.” 

He nods at the semen-stained cloth still lying on the floor and their discarded clothes. It may not be befitting the king to do his own cleaning, but Maleagant too would rather their private matters remain _ private_, and so he doesn’t argue. 

Besides, they probably _ should _ finally stop lazying in bed. 

With slight reluctance, Maleagant gets on his feet, leans down to take the dirty cloth from the floor and tosses it into the fireplace. He’ll dress up first and then head to the kitchens to instruct them to make Arthur a proper meal. He hopes it’ll be enough to briefly satisfy the servant’s need for gossip, and— 

“Maleagant?” Arthur calls. 

“What now?” 

Arthur hesitates for a moment, seemingly unsure. 

“May I… Would you mind if I stay here tonight as well?” 

He must be longing for company, for shared kisses or shared pleasure. Maleagant doesn’t think he can deny him _ any _ of this, although he can’t dismiss the thought that sharing the bed every night isn’t exactly _ common _ for married couples. But Arthur’s affectionate, he enjoys intimacy and closeness. He doesn’t do well being alone, and— 

At this point in his life, Maleagant is sick of his loneliness too. 

“Stay,” he says softly. “I won’t mind.” 

Arthur’s eyes brighten and his smile seems blinding, and Maleagant thinks it may be worth him swallowing his pride.


	10. The Falling

Arthur’s muscles tremble, and he feels like a newborn calf struggling to keep himself on his feet. That’s what he gets for spending weeks bedridden and then a few more barely leaving the castle’s main tower. 

“Take it easy, Your Majesty,” Drest smirks, unashamedly enjoying Arthur’s helplessness. “Don’t strain yourself.” 

Both Drest and Cynbel made their mission to get Arthur back in shape right after he was declared healthy enough to train by the court physician, a grumpy old man who, much to Arthur’s embarrassment, had no qualms about scolding him publicly for overdoing it during his wedding night. _ And _ the night after. 

So far Arthur’s training regime has been anything but gentle, though he’s never been pushed _ past _ his limits. It felt genuinely _ good _ to finally be able to stretch his muscles, enjoy the sun and fresh air, spend some time with his friends he missed so dearly. 

_ They _ wouldn’t be as merciless and Cynbel and Drest are, but Arthur can’t deny that he’ll benefit much more from slightly cruel enthusiasm of his former guards than from his knights’ coddling. 

“I think I’m done for today,” Arthur says with a quiet chuckle, handing his sword to Bors. 

They’ve just finished their sparring, and he feels immensely grateful that for all that Bors possesses a truly bear-like strength he’s perfectly capable of holding it back. It may be the only reason Arthur is still standing. 

“_I _ think you're just eager to strain yourself somewhere else,” Bors quips, adding an exaggeratedly salacious wink. 

Arthur rolls his eyes, feeling exasperated and embarrassed and somewhat fond. Of all of his friends Bors seems to be the most accepting of his marriage to Maleagant, easily forgetting their past grievances. He sees no point in holding a grudge when the reasons for that ceased to matter, and Arthur is grateful for that. He _ is_, it’s just— 

Bors seems to be getting along with Drest _ swimmingly, _ and with their combined wit and an utter lack of respect, Arthur’s convinced he’ll be teased mercilessly for the rest of his natural life and probably even beyond.

He doesn’t deign to answer Bors, considering he can’t exactly _ deny _ the accusation. He _ was _ thinking about seeing Maleagant, even willing to risk earning his displeasure intruding on the time he usually prefers to spend alone. 

While Arthur sincerely enjoys his friends’ company, his husband’s feels— different. It might be because their bond is so fragile and new, their _ intimacy _ of a different flavour. It might be because with Maleagant Arthur doesn’t feel like he needs to adopt a certain image or play a certain role. 

Being a king is the most important one he has. He may be a friend, but he’s still a _ superior _ all to aware of the power he holds over his subjects. That feeling of equality the marriage gave him is a blessing he didn’t even realise he needed, and he’s forever _ grateful _ for it. 

Taking off his shirt, Arthur wipes his sweaty face, slicks back his hair and breathes in a lungful of fresh and pleasantly chill air. Bors seems to be distracted by Cynbel, who’s eager as always to point even the tiniest mistakes they made during their sparring. Drest joins them a moment later to offer a few suggestions of his own, but Arthur doesn’t really want to hear them. 

Instead, he wonders how much Maleagant is going to hate him for coming to him like this, still sweaty and a bit smelly after the training, utterly exhausted and _really _ looking forward to a cuddle. 

Not _ that _ much, he decides. He would’ve pegged Maleagant as someone obsessed with being perfectly proper and clean, but in truth he doesn’t seem to mind a bit of a mess. 

He’s more likely to be annoyed at Arthur for interrupting his readings. 

Arthur sighs. Taking a few gulps of water from his waterskin, he uses the rest to quickly wash away at least the worst of the filth. The last thing he wants is for Maleagant to send him to his rooms. Their time in Gore is coming to an end, and there is no doubt things will be _ different _ in Camelot. 

They will have responsibilities to deal with, they will have to learn how to _ share _ them too, and Arthur isn’t looking forward to that in the slightest. 

“I’m taking a break tomorrow,” Arthur says, loud enough to command attention to himself and interrupt the still continuing discussion. 

He feels exhausted enough that he sincerely doubts he’ll manage a full training tomorrow, but for the most part, he just wants to enjoy in full his last moments of married life unburdened by duties and distractions. 

“Would’ve said you deserved it, Sire,” Cynbel bares his crooked teeth, “but your today’s display was kind of pathetic. Give his other majesty my regards.” 

His smile turns downright nasty, and Arthur barely holds back a groan at the realisation that Cynbel _ as well _ isn’t going to simply leave him alone. 

Whatever atrocities he committed in life to be cursed with friends like these? 

“Enjoy your day,” he says curtly. 

Putting on his spare clean shirt and bundling himself in thick wooled cloak, he heads towards the castle’s main tower. 

It’s not a long way, but Arthur’s every step feels like a small torture and he’s sweating again by the time he reaches Maleagant’s chambers. They are unlocked, because these days they mostly share them. 

Arthur hasn’t spent a night in his own rooms since the wedding, and though he and Maleagant haven’t been intimate all that often, just sleeping together felt almost just as good. 

Trying not to make too much noise, Arthur enters the chambers and leaves his bag on the floor. He’s surprised to find the rooms dark, _ too _ dark to read, and for a brief moment he believes Maleagant might have left, though it seems odd for him to break his habit, but then— 

Arthur spots his husband sitting in the chair next to the fireplace. His head is tilted back and his eyes are closed, his breaths are even and deep. He looks asleep, but there is something _ off _ in his posture, a tension that simply shouldn’t be there. 

“Maleagant,” Arthur murmurs quietly. “Is everything alright?” 

He feels concern filling his heart to the brim, overwhelming and sharp, though he can’t quite grasp its reason. Maleagant seemed completely fine this morning, but— 

He _ isn’t _ now. His skin looks clammy and sickly pale, his eyes are sunken and his fingers are clasped tightly, completely rigid with tension. 

Arthur notices the faint trembling of Maleagant’s eyelashes, though he doesn’t open his eyes nor does he seem to acknowledge another’s presence in his rooms. 

A few painfully long moments later he finally opens his mouth: 

“Yes,” his lips barely move. “Just a headache.” 

Arthur exhales, though Maleagant’s words barely manage to soothe his worry. Even if it _ is _ nothing more than a headache, it must be severe enough for him to look so sick, and Arthur’s heart aches from the realization that he can’t really do anything to help. 

“Would you mind if I stayed?” he asks quietly. 

He knows he will have to leave if that’s what Maleagant wishes, if it is easier for him to have no witnesses to his suffering, but he doesn’t _ want _ to go. He wants to remain by his husband’s side, even if that’s the only thing he can offer. 

“No.”

Arthur nods. He heads to the closest window to open it, careful to leave the curtains shut. He thinks Maleagant might be feeling too sensitive to light, but fresh air should do him some good, and today’s weather is warm enough for the chill not to bother him much. 

Maleagant voices no protest. He takes a deep breath, wincing slightly as it seems to momentarily worsen his pain. Arthur wonders if those headaches are something he suffers from often. He didn’t notice him being sick before, but Maleagant has always been a deeply private person, and until recently _ he _ was the one to choose the time they saw each other. 

Arthur remembers his adoptive mother mentioning once that her older sister had something awfully similar, those chronic headaches that were excruciating enough to leave her bedridden for hours. He sincerely hopes Maleagant doesn’t have it half as bad, because the mere thought of it makes Arthur sick to his stomach. 

Adjusting the curtains one last time, Arthur heads to the fireplace, crouches in front of the chair and places his palms on Maleagant’s thighs. He waits until Maleagant opens his eyes, then smiles at him weakly to silently apologize for the disturbance. 

“I think you should lie down,” he says softly. “Let me help you.” 

Maleagant lifts the corner of his mouth in an attempt of an answering smle. His eyes are bloodshot and pained, but there is a faint light of affection shining through them. 

He carefully lowers his head. 

Arthur offers Maleagant his hand to help him up. It isn’t easy, not when every movement seems to worsen the pain, but eventually they manage to stand. 

Arthur takes a moment to press a light, chaste kiss to his husband’s lips.

“There,” he murmurs. “Let’s go.” 

Carefully and slowly, they make it to the bed. Maleagant’s face is tight from pain, there is sweat glistening on his temples, and Arthur doesn’t even think about making him undress. His clothes look comfortable enough to rest in them. 

Arthur lies down on the bed atop of the covers, then opens his arms, offering an embrace. 

Maleagant looks at him wearily, his lips curved into a semblance of a smile, but he doesn’t hesitate to accept the invitation. Gingerly, he lowers himself next to Arthur, rests his head on his chest and closes his eyes. He looks so vulnerable, so oddly _ trusting_. 

Arthur raises his hand to brush away a few stray locks of hair from Maleagant’s forehead. His fingers are gentle and cool, and maybe they do bring some relief. 

“Is this alright?” he asks. 

“Yes.” 

Arthur’s breath hitches. There is so much tenderness in his heart it feels it could burst, it _ aches _ for Maleagant, for the suffering he did nothing to deserve. The fate _ is _ cruel to him, in so many ways, and Arthur hopes he’s capable of easing his burden if just a little. 

Maleagant wraps his arm across Arthur’s stomach, shifting up to get more comfortable. Carefully and almost weightlessly, Arthur strokes his hair, hoping to distract him from pain. It seems to be working, though there is no doubt the headache won’t go away so easily.

“Does this happen often?” he asks, but immediately regrets it. 

Talking won’t do Maleagant any good, he should at least try to fall asleep, unlikely as it seems.

“More often than I would’ve liked,” Maleagant says before Arthur has any chance to take his question back. “It’s nothing. It will pass.” 

It’s not _ nothing_, but Arthur doesn’t waste his breath on trying to argue. It certainly won’t help. He keeps silent, unwilling to disturb his husband again, but it is Maleagant who interrupts the silence moments later: 

“Talk to me,” he says quietly. “I want to hear your voice.” 

Arthur hums. He feels oddly pleased, _ honored _ by the request. He’s reminded of the countless nights that brought them together in the first place, those nights when Maleagant would tell him stories of foreign heroes and gods, of battles fought and lovers lost. 

His beautiful, clever husband. 

Arthur knows he can’t offer him the same, doesn’t know enough tales and can’t weave a good story, but he doesn’t think it matters that much. More often than not it was nothing but the sound of Maleagant’s voice that soothed his pain, distracted him from constant ache and made breathing a little easier. 

Now it’s his turn to offer the same. And— 

There _ is _ something he wants to share. Something about himself, something that’s been at the back of his mind this whole day. He thought about it not long ago, about the roles he was bound to play and other people’s expectations, about his place in life. 

He and Maleagant may be much closer now, but they still barely know each other, and Arthur wants no secrets between them. He wants to bare his soul until nothing remains hidden, and though he isn’t sure it’s truly welcome, he _ longs _ for it so desperately he has no hope of talking himself out of it. 

He’s so tired of being _ lonely_, and though this feeling eased during the past few weeks, it didn’t disappear completely. 

Arthur sighs and blinks at the ceiling. He keeps silent for a while, gently stroking Maleagant’s hair and simply letting himself enjoy the moment. Then, he gathers all the courage he has, wets his lips and begins: 

“My mother— Sir Ector’s wife, she used to tell me that I was—” He pauses, suddenly unsure if he should continue. Maleagant didn’t ask him to _ complain_, he has plenty of his own hurts and worries and has no use for Arthur’s. Maybe it’s better to choose a different topic, less _ heavy _— 

“Go on,” Maleagant says quietly. 

Arthur smiles a little nervously, places a quick kiss at the top of Maleagant’s head. His hair feels silky soft under his lips, it smells of elderberries and wormwood, and Arthur feels _ enchanted _ by it just as he’s always been. From the very first touch, from the very first time when he allowed himself to see Maleagant differently. 

He’s so _ grateful _ he did, because with him, in this very moment he feels something he only dared to dream of. He feels safe and cared for, he feels like he _ belongs_. 

“She used to say that I was a cherished child,” he says. “Kay was their only son, and they always wanted to have more children, and I— I think she felt it a blessing that I was given to their family.” 

Arthur swallows heavily. It’s harder to talk about this than he thought it would be, he’s not even sure what he wants to say or how to say it. He’s never been good with words, he stumbles through his attempts to tell a story, but maybe it doesn’t matter that much. 

As long as his voice is quiet and warm, as long as he’s saying _ something_, it must be enough to distract Maleagant from his pain. 

It’s enough to convince himself that there is no reason to hold back. 

“They loved me,” he murmurs. “My _ mother _ loved me, Sir Ector… I don’t think he ever managed to forget that I am his king’s child, his _ prince_.”

Arthur closes his eyes. He doesn’t stop stroking Maleagant’s hair, but now it feels like he tries to comfort himself. His own confession brings him pain, familiar, yet unexpectedly sharp. He feels too acutely the _ loss _ of his family. Though they are alive and well, he can’t make himself feel a part of it. Not anymore. 

It’s all too clear now that while Sir Ector used to favor him, it never was personal. He wasn’t distant, but neither did he have any love for the foolish and too-rash child, careless and prone to outbursts, scatterbrained and inattentive. 

“When Merlin told me Sir Ector isn’t my true father, I wasn’t exactly surprised,” Arthur makes himself continue, even if the words seem to scrape his throat raw. “I’ve never felt like I _ belonged _ with my adoptive family. It wasn’t— It’s not that I thought myself better than them or destined for something greater. It wasn’t _ me_, I don’t think—” 

He grows silent once more. It’s not exactly the first time he speaks about these things, but _ almost_. He got used to keeping his hurts, his feeling of being lost hidden from his knights, his dear friends he trusted with his life, but he couldn’t bear the thought of feeling weak before them. 

He was their _ king _ first and furthermost, the person they could look up to, not a foolish lost boy starved for attention, for being accepted and loved. 

Once, he tried to confide in Merlin, to explain the doubts that plagued him, but the druid was deaf to his pleas. He wasn’t callous or uncaring, he simply didn’t seem to understand what troubled Arthur. The mythical Grail could never be enough for him to find his way and lose that awful feeling of being adrift. 

“I don’t know who I am,” Arthur admits, and he’s surprised how easy that truth spills from his lips. 

He doesn’t feel afraid to seem weak before his husband. Maleagant saw him at his worst and never put him on a pedestal, and in truth, he may know him better than many. 

Better than Arthur knows himself. 

He doesn’t continue for a while, listening to the sound of Maleagant’s breaths, enjoying his warmth and his closeness, that feeling of _ connection _ he always longed for. The one no simple friendship could offer. 

“I thought I had plenty of time to figure it out,” he says as few moments pass. “I was fifteen, barely a year into my service as a squire. I dreamed of being a knight, of surpassing my brother so that he’ll finally quit teasing me. Not much of an ambition, right?” 

He chuckles quietly. 

He wonders what Maleagant wanted at that age, if he always dreamed big and reached for his aims with methodical, obsessive determination. He wonders if he knows what to do with himself once his every possible desire is fulfilled. 

Arthur doesn’t. 

“And then I became the High-King of Britain. So many _ expectations _ were placed on me. Suddenly I was responsible for the fate of the whole kingdom,” he doesn’t quite manage to hide the bitterness in his voice, that hurt he still feels towards Merlin who clearly forgot how much he asked of a _ child_. 

Maleagant doesn’t say anything, but his embrace tightens as if he wants to remind Arthur that he’s here and he’s still listening. That he _ understands _ him. 

It makes breathing a little easier. 

“I would’ve given a lot for a chance to remain just me, but— It wasn’t about me.” 

Even at the age of fifteen Arthur understood that clearly. He no longer had the luxury of being nobody, he was entrusted the safety of Britain by its people and he couldn’t simply _ refuse _ that, forget like a terrible nightmare and continue living his life as if nothing happened. 

“I had to do this right and figure out quickly the way a true king should act. My friends became my subjects, and even though the years forged the bonds that I cherish with all of my heart, sometimes it still doesn’t feel _ enough _ . Sometimes I need to feel _ equal _to someone— Like I do with you.” 

Arthur is eternally _ grateful _ for this. He’s not entirely sure of the reason for that feeling, if it has anything to do with the way their marriage is set. In a way, he feels like the foundation for that was laid so much earlier. When Arthur took the sword from the stone may have risen to Maleagant’s level but never higher, not without his true acceptance or the granted title of a knight. The marriage vows just made it final. 

Carefully and gently, Arthur traces the faint outline of the vein on Maleagant’s temple, then pushes his hair behind his ear, revealing in the feeling that he’s allowed these small gestures of affection, that’s he is wanted, perhaps even _ needed_. 

Maleagant has no use for the king’s favor, not when he always wanted that title for himself and knew better than most what to do with it, but he might just need a friend, a confidant, a lover. Someone willing to accept all of his vices and flaws, someone who’ll _ love _ him— 

Gods, Arthur is sure he already does. 

His mother — the woman who _ raised _ him if not birthed him — used to say that he’ll fall in love in a matter of weeks if not quicker, that he’ll give his whole heart without a doubt for he simply doesn’t know how to do things halfway. 

Now Arthur realizes she was right. 

He’s never been in love before. Of course, he had his fancies, but not even once tenderness and affection in his heart felt so overwhelming. He knows he wants _ everything _ with Maleagant, his company and his touches, long talks in the evenings and gentle embraces in the mornings. He wants to soothe his hurts and tame his temper if just a little, to make his life _ easier _ for both of their sakes. 

He can imagine spending eternity together, with no regrets or feeling like he’s missing something. 

He wishes for nothing more than what he already has. 

“You can’t even imagine how _ grateful _ I am that fate brought us together. I’m willing to forgive for that all of its cruelness, because—” Arthur swallows heavily. He’s still afraid to admit certain things aloud, even if they don’t matter anymore. “Because I think that otherwise I wouldn’t be able to see past our rivalry, discover what kind of person you are or grow to care about you so deeply. And I fear that it would’ve ended in bloodshed and misery, so this— _ Marrying you _ might be the best thing in my whole life.” 

Arthur lowers his eyes at Maleagant to see what reaction his confession brought. He feels a little nervous and a little scared, and— 

Maleagant’s face is relaxed and calm, the tiny crease between his eyebrows has finally smoothed away, his lips are slightly parted and his breaths are even and deep. He is _ asleep_, lulled by exhaustion or Arthur’s voice. _ When _ he nodded off, which things he heard and which he will remember later? 

Arthur feels a little foolish and a little disappointed, but for the most part he’s glad he got this off his chest and finally admitted the true depth of his feelings. 

There will be plenty of opportunities to show Maleagant how much he’s loved, to give him all affection he deserves. He will not doubt just how _ important _ he is. 

Arthur knows that right now his feelings are mostly one-sided, that Malegant is _ different _ from him. He’s cautious and he’s distrustful, he harbors too much resentment for their past to simply let go, but— 

He’s also _ fond _ of Arthur, enjoys his company and his touches, doesn’t just _ tolerate _ his presence by his side. He already welcomes much more than marriage demands. 

Perhaps in time, however long it takes, he will learn to love Arthur back. Perhaps he _ won’t_, and though the thought of it fills Arthur’s heart with sadness, he’s sure that he can live with that too. As long as he gets to keep what he has now, as long as Maleagant accepts his feelings. 

And, all in all, he thinks, there are worse things than being in love with your husband.


	11. Interlude: Bagdemagus

The courtyard is crowded and noisy with knights’ laughter and creaking of armor and horses’ neighing. It is the day the esteemed guests are finally set to leave. Their king— _ both _ of their kings decided it’s high time they head to the capital and see to their royal duties. 

Once they reach Camelot, Maleagant will be officially crowned as the High-King, and the news of that will be sent to the farthest corners of their Britain, but even now he has all rights to rule. 

His marriage to Arthur was enough to grant him the very thing he sought for so long. 

Bagdemagus remembers quite clearly when it all started. Maleagant was young, barely a few years into his knighthood when King Uther died, and taking the throne became his goal and his obsession. Bagdemagus knows he should be proud of his son finally fulfilling his greatest ambition, but in reality he’s simply wary. 

It _ shames _ him deeply, and yet there is nothing he can do to vanquish this treacherous feeling. 

He’s worried about Maleagant, he’s always been and always will be, and while a part of him is relieved that his son’s journey towards his goal is over, the other, much bigger part feels nothing but dread. 

Worst of all, he doesn’t know if there is _ anything _ he can do to prevent his worst fears from coming to life. 

Maeve would have known. Maleagant was her baby, her darling boy always clinging to her skirts. Fussy, prone to hysterics and ready to throw a tantrum at the slightest inconvenience, he was a difficult child to raise, but Maeve seemed to understand so easily what troubled him and how to soothe his every hurt. 

She _ loved _ him with everything she had, she gave him all affection her heart was capable of. She coddled him too much... Or maybe just enough. 

In moments like this, Bagdemagus desperately wishes she were alive to tell him how to act and what to say. He wishes she were able to see her son’s wedding, the vows and kisses he exchanged with the man he’ll share his life with. 

With a heavy sigh, Bagdemagus heads down the stairs, his steps steady and slow. He’s getting old, he knows that much. His only son is married to a man, and it’s quite likely their issue with an heir won’t be solved for a long time, but that’s the least of his worries. 

Bagdemagus still has no idea what to think of the union itself, so unlikely that the possibility of it didn’t even cross his mind. A few months ago he’d have scoffed at the mere suggestion that Maleagant could ever agree to that. 

His hatred for Arthur was so bright and all-encompassing, it scared Bagdemagus to see his son capable of such a feeling, and now— 

Now they are _ married_. 

Bagdemagus still remembers that day when he got the news of Arthur’s unfortunate offer and Maleagant’s agreement to it. He remembers how befuddled he felt, fearful and confused, unable to stop wondering if he should’ve at least _ tried _ to stop Maleagant from attacking Cameliard. 

The true reason for that campaign was never a secret to Bagdemagus. While Gore truly needed Cameliard’s resources and Guinevere’s beauty did capture Maleagant’s attention a while back, the siege was planned with the only goal in mind: to force Arthur’s hand. 

The noble king couldn’t have refused to help an ally. He would’ve been forced to leave the impenetrable defenses of his father’s fortress, and with his army still so scarce, he was bound to lose. Maleagant was _ obsessed _ with this plan for years. He gathered the forces and mapped the lands, he secured one strategic point after another, he made Gore rich, a force to be reckoned with— 

Not for the prosperity of his kingdom, but to one-up his rival. 

Every rumor of Arthur’s success made Maleagant grind his teeth in seething anger, every mention of the young king managed to set him off, so _ how _ could Bagdemagus expect their marriage to end in something other than complete and utter disaster? 

Passing yet another flight of stairs, Bagdemagus pauses next to the window overlooking the gardens south to the main courtyard. There he spots those two his mind was occupied with, Maleagant and his young husband, both busy tending to their horses.

They don’t seem to be in a hurry to leave. Feeding small pieces of apple to his horse, Arthur is animatedly telling some story, while Maleagant looks at him blankly, his head slightly tilted and his expression deliberately bored. Bagdemagus may not know his son all that well, but he’s sure his husband has his utmost attention. 

And this is exactly what shocks him still. 

It was surprising enough to see Maleagant worrying about Arthur’s health, completely obsessed with seeing him properly cared for and barely allowing the servants to do their jobs, but _ that _ could be explained. Maleagant needed Arthur alive to secure the throne, and yet as the weeks passed their relationship changed too drastically to believe it was the only reason for his care. There was no anger left in Maleagant at the mentions of Arthur, only an odd mix of exasperation and certain fondness, and then— 

Then, Bagdemagus got to meet the boy himself. So awfully young and a little naive, kind and for some reason fiercely protective of his husband-to-be. 

Bagdemagus doesn’t move, watching as the horse nudges Arthur’s empty palm, asking for more treats. Arthur pauses mid-sentence, laughs softly and shakes his head as if to apologize before the horse for having nothing left, but Maleagant is already reaching for the saddlebags to get another apple. 

He tosses it up and catches easily, smirks a little wickedly, suggesting something Bagdemagus doesn’t catch. Arthur rolls his eyes. He takes a step closer to Maleagant to take the fruit from his hand, then pauses, quite a different intention written on his face. 

The silence stretches. They stay like this, too close to each other, and Bagdemagus feels vaguely guilty about being a witness to such an intimate moment, but he can’t make himself turn away. 

He is aware that Maleagant and Arthur share their marriage bed, there is hardly a soul in the whole castle who _ doesn’t_, but somehow this feels like so much _ more_. 

As he watches them now, Arthur’s gaze tender and full of affection, the smile on Maleagant’s lips so genuine and soft, Bagdemagus struggles to remember the last time he saw a couple so utterly _ enamored _ with each other. 

Over six decades of his life, he witnessed plenty of good matches and happy marriages. His _ own _ was one, but his relationship with Maeve was based on sympathy and mutual respect, not— _ this. _This sort of affection, this starry-eyed looks he’d have expected to see in those willing to run away from their families to elope in secret, fighting the odds because they love was so great. 

To his great shame, Bagdemagus didn’t believe Maleagant capable of such feelings. He knows he wasn’t a good father to him, too distant and demanding, scared by how complicated he seemed and trying to mold him into something simpler, and Arthur— 

Arthur might be perfectly capable of accepting Maleagant the way he is. 

Bagdemagus is _ grateful _ for that. He wants to be happy too, but no matter how he tries he can’t tame the fear that took root in his heart, can’t push away the sense of foreboding that grows stronger each day. 

He finally turns away and continues his path, unwilling to see the kiss that might be sweet and almost chaste but still not meant for his eyes. 

If things were simpler, if there were nothing but married life awaiting Maleagant and his husband— if they could spend it _ here_, far away from the troubles and safe from the whole world, _ then _ Bagdemagus would be content. He’d be genuinely happy to know that his son found someone capable of understanding him and loving him just as fiercely as his mother did, but— 

_ Nothing _ about their situation is simple. They have a kingdom to rule, the crown to share and countless wars to win. They have to find a middle ground, learn to trust each other and accept compromises, not just in _ bed _ but in the throne room as well. 

Submitting has never been easy for men, and in truth, this was the reason the unions like these fell out of use. 

The complications they’ll face could be enough to taint even the purest love, and Maleagant— Maleagant has always been the biggest enemy of his happiness, the first to believe in failure no matter how hard he fought to win. 

What will he fight for if the time to choose comes? Will he try to save his rare precious feeling and shield it from the cruelty of life, or will he seek power, that ultimate triumph that will destroy his soul and hurt those he holds dear? 

Gods, Bagdemagus hopes it will never come to this. 

Squaring his shoulders, he exits the castle and heads towards the gardens. It is his last chance to talk to his son in private, and perhaps this time he’ll be able to find the right words and make his genuine advice sound less like a judgment. 

Bagdemagus doesn’t try to silence his steps. He’s deliberately _ noisy_, and so by the time he finally enters the gardens both Maleagant and his husband seem perfectly proper. Still, he doesn’t miss the fierce blush on Arthur’s cheeks or how disheveled Maleagant looks, his hair messy and his mouth bright. 

In all honesty, Bagdemagus didn’t think he’ll ever get to see his son like this. At the time of his youth, Maleagant was even more volatile and closed off than these days, and it served all too well to stop him from getting truly attached to anyone. 

Old fool, Bagdemagus thought it a blessing back then. 

Maleagant raises his eyes to meet his, and the brightness of his gaze immediately dims to steely suspicion. If only he could’ve inherited a little bit of gentleness from his mother, that ease with which she always seemed to find the inner peace, his life would’ve been so much easier, but— For all that Maleagant _ adored _ Maeve more than anything, for all that he has her eyes and her nose and her sharp cheekbones, there is too much of _ Bagdemagus _ in him. 

The years that passed smoothed the sharpest edges of Bagdemagus’ temper, they tamed his arrogance and his conviction he knows best, but that’s the lesson he cannot teach. He has to watch his son make the same mistakes, and the price for _ his _ might be awfully high. 

Maleagant has so much to lose now. 

“Son,” Bagdemagus greets, then turns to give a short bow to Arthur. “Sire.” 

The boy — and after getting to know him it’s hard to think of him as anything _ but _ a boy, a mere child who may one day grow into a good and wise man, but still has a long way to go, — nods sharply, his eyes a little wary and distrustful. He has plenty of reasons for that. In his mid-sixties, Bagdemagus _ is _ capable of admitting the mistake he made the first time they’ve met. 

“Father,” Maleagant grits out, his fingers curling into loose fists. “To what do I owe the pleasure?” 

“I came to say my goodbyes,” Bagdemagus says calmly. “I’m afraid my duties won’t allow me to visit Camelot for a long while, and I was hoping... to make amends before you leave.” 

The last time they talked, weeks before the wedding, Maleagant was completely _ furious _ at him, seething with anger because of that conversation he overheard by chance. Bagdemagus _ regrets _ it, genuinely and deeply, he just isn’t sure how to explain himself when he doesn’t even know _ why _ he said what he said. 

Did he really need to _ accuse _ his son when he wanted something completely different? He hoped to smooth things over between him and his husband, to ask Arthur’s forgiveness because Maleagant surely won’t, but— 

There was no need for his meddling, of which Maleagant informed him, his voice acerbic and sharp, his eyes filled with _hurt_. 

Bagdemagus sees it even now. 

“A little too late for that, don’t you think, _ father_?” Maleagant arches his eyebrows. 

He’s out of line, completely unconcerned about his rudeness, though Arthur doesn’t seem to be judging. He just looks worried, wary and a little unsure. Quietly, he clears his throat to get his husband’s attention.

“Should I leave you two alone?” he asks, then lowers his voice a little. “I’m not the one to tell you what to do, but maybe you should at least _ try_. Family is—” 

He pauses as if unsure how to finish the sentence, but Maleagant seems to understand him all the same. His eyes soften a little, his lips quirk into a brief smile, and he nods in the direction of the courtyard. 

“Tell our people we’ll are leaving before midday, they should hurry up. I… will join you shortly.” 

There is a hint of apology in his voice, though Arthur accepts his dismissal easily. He murmurs a quiet “alright,” then turns to face Bagdemagus. 

“Sir Bagdemagus,” he says, his eyes guarded but not hostile. “I hope one day I’ll have the honor to see you as my— as our guest in Camelot.” 

It sounds more polite than sincere, but Bagdemagus still appreciates the sentiment. 

“Have a safe journey, Your Majesty,” he says. 

He watches Arthur leave, prolonging the moment until he’ll have to face his son again, but as soon as the young king’s figure disappears behind the trees, he turns to meet Maleagant’s hard and unreadable eyes. 

“Speak your mind, then,” he says curtly. 

Bagdemagus takes a deep breath. There are so many things he wants to say, so many things that either won’t change anything or Maleagant is not yet ready to hear, and in the end, he settles on something simple but perhaps the most important of all. 

“I wish a safe journey to you as well,” he says, keeping his voice soft. “And now, when your greatest ambition is finally fulfilled—” 

“Because I _ cheated_,” Maleagant interrupts harshly. 

“Because you were smart enough not to refuse a union beneficial to all of Britain,” Bagdemagus corrects. It isn’t much of an apology, but his son looks surprised all the same. “Now, when your greatest ambition is fulfilled,” he repeats, “and your husband seems to care about you deeply, I wish you would allow yourself to be happy.” 

It is the truth, although his hope is unsure and weak, but this time Bagdemagus _ has _ to have faith in Maleagant and the man who’ll remain by his side even if he missteps. 

For the briefest of moments before Maleagant pulls himself together, he looks— vulnerable and lost, completely unprepared to hear such a simple thing. _ Shame _ on Bagdemagus, but he already knows that. 

In plenty of ways, Maleagant too is just a boy, still young and foolish, no matter how many books he read and how cunning he became. He is Bagdemagus’s _ baby _, his and Maeve’s, and maybe she’s not with them now, but— 

“I know your mother would be proud of you,” he says. “And please, son, I’m begging you, _ cherish _ what you have for that is the rarest treasure.” 

Not the crown, not the power, not even people’s acceptance he’s yet to truly gain, but _ love_. Bagdemagus may have never experienced this feeling, and yet he knows that having someone you hold dear by your side is worth dozens of kingdoms. 

Perhaps one day Maleagant will understand this too. Perhaps a part of him already does. 

Maleagant’s gaze doesn’t soften and his face resembles a stone mask. 

He lowers his head. 

“I will,” he promises. “I thank you, father, and wish you well.” 

These may be the kindest words they exchanged in years, and perhaps it’s not impossible to believe that some bridges still can be mended, but— 

Even if it’s too late for _ them_, it’s certainly not for Maleagant. He still has his whole life ahead of him, and Bagdemagus will hold onto his hope it will be a happy one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> don't tell me "seras-tu fier" doesn't fit PERFECTLY here


	12. The Sparring

As far as Malegant is concerned, Sir Gawain of Orkney looks much more agreeable when he’s on the ground, defeated and struggling to catch his breath. Of course, this outcome was inevitable. While Sir Gawain is by no means a poor swordsman, Maleagant had an opportunity to see him in action before and knew full well they aren’t evenly matched. 

This is why he agreed to the sparring in the first place. This is why he was sure the offer itself was a peace offering and not an attempt to get rid of the stain on Arthur’s reputation. The Waiting Year does nothing to protect Maleagant. Camelot can easily afford to lose Gore, and Maleagant may trust _ Arthur_, but he isn’t foolish enough to extend the same courtesy to his knights. 

Sheathing his sword, he offers his hand to Gawain who takes it readily, no sign of hurt or resentment marring his features. 

“Good fight,” he grins broadly. 

Maleagant answers with a thin smile and a curt nod. 

In truth, he doesn’t _detest_ those people Arthur considers to be his friends, nor does he genuinely believe that they hate him. All of them are loyal to their chosen king and they trust him fully. They trust his _heart_ and his affections, even if they don’t make much sense in their eyes. 

Maleagant isn’t blind. He knows that Gawain tries. To see _ something _ in him besides a threat to his beloved king. Something his beloved king must genuinely _ like_. 

Bors has a much easier time with that, but Maleagant strongly suspects that Bors never actually met anyone he _ doesn’t _ like if just a little. And then, there is Percival, who was foolish enough to succumb to Vogan’s affections, and after dealing with that walking menace Maleagant’s company might seem positively _ pleasant_. 

In turn, Maleagant learns to at least tolerate most of his husband’s knights, and he’s inexplicably fond of Arthur himself, and yet— 

Yet, he still doesn’t feel _ accepted_. He doesn’t feel like the High-King even after he was crowned in front of people of Camelot and took his place beside his husband. _ Behind _ him, that’s what it feels like, and he was _ promised _ equality. 

“Sire?” Gawain calls, ripping Maleagant out of his thoughts. 

He feels almost grateful for this chance to escape the suffocating mess of his regrets. Straightening his back, Maleagant meets Gawain’s eyes. This time, he feels no need to hide behind the mask of propriety, not when it’s _ frankness _ he desires. 

“Do you,” he asks plainly, “know what people think of my marriage to Arthur?” 

What do they think of their beloved king finally choosing a spouse? Not a wife, pleasant and meek and perfectly capable of birthing an heir, but a _ man_, scorned and feared prince of some faraway kingdom. His very existence might seem like a threat to their peace. 

Maleagant didn’t pay much attention to people’s reactions on the day he was made the High-King. He couldn’t focus on anything but the _ crown_, the symbol of his greatest ambition finally fulfilled. It promised him satisfaction and joy, but he felt— 

_ Empty_. 

“People, Sire?” Gawain seems genuinely perplexed by the question, but maybe he’s simply startled by the sudden change of topic. 

He makes no move to lift his sword from the ground, his attention is solely focused on Maleagant. It is what’s _ proper_, even if not exactly necessary. Gawain is loyal to a fault, to Arthur, certainly, but to the crown as well. He’s one of the few — Maleagant’s own people included — who truly value ceremonies and rules and always toe the line. 

It’s something that bothers _ Arthur _ for he considers Gawain to be his truest friend and his only family, and he’s not _ wrong _ to think so, but—

In Gawain’s mind, he’ll always be a servant of the crown first and a friend second. 

At least Maleagant appreciates this. 

“People,” he says a heartbeat later, “of Britain, _ the folk_. Tell me about the talks amongst them, I want to know it all. The _ truth_.” 

He is aware that Gawain is exceptionally good at dealing with people and decent enough in collecting rumors. He’s not a bad choice of advisor in these matters. Urien might be suited better, but Malegant’s dearest cousin is a little too prone to choosing flattery instead of honesty. Gawain is likely to be exceedingly polite in telling the less savory parts, but at least he’ll be _ sincere_. 

Right now, he seems to hesitate to give an answer. With a slight frown, he casts a quick look towards the castle. It’s barely visible behind the thick forest, and the clearing Malegant chose for their sparring is secluded enough to offer them privacy. 

They certainly won’t be overheard here. 

“For the most part, people are… confused,” Gawain says, taking a few steps back. “The common folk forgot that marriages like yours are even possible. They were expecting a queen.” 

A queen. A woman to soften with her gentle touch a man’s harshness. Maleagant is the exact _ opposite _ of that, he’s stricter and far more demanding than his husband is, even if Arthur isn’t half as _ soft _ on the throne as he is in the privacy of their chambers. 

“There are also talks about an heir,” Gawain continues. His voice sounds even and his expression is calm, so it’s unlikely he sees anything truly worrying in this gossip. “If I may be frank, Your Majesty, people are simply… bored. So they _ do _ wonder how this issue will be solved. It’s harmless.” 

Maleagant twists his lips in a grimace of disdain. He had the dubious pleasure to hear some of those _ wonderings_, distasteful jokes about who is the _ wife _ in their marriage, and it didn’t help much that opinions on that were, for the most part, split evenly. Once, he also caught Vogan debating whether or not he’ll be able to deliver a baby with hips so narrow, but getting offended at that fool seemed completely pointless. 

Maleagant does recognize that eventually he and Arthur will have to decide who will inherit the throne after both of their deaths. He _ thought _ about it, but still remains conflicted on the matter. He doesn’t particularly like the thought of giving up their rights to _ anyone _ from their extended families, and recognizing one of their bastards is a much more sound solution, it’s just— 

He _ hates _ the thought of Arthur being intimate with someone who’s not him. 

He equally hates the alternative of doing this himself. 

“What else?” he asks coldly. 

Gawain meets his eyes squarely and without hesitation as if he has nothing to hide. 

“You don’t need to worry about your people, Sire,” he says plainly. “They may not love you yet, but neither do they detest you. As long as your reign does nothing to harm them personally, they won’t care. It may take some time for them to get used to the thought of having two kings, but they _ will_.” 

Maleagant wishes these words would bring him a little more comfort. He doesn’t doubt their truth, it’s just— _ not enough. _

Sometimes he wonders if his heart’s greed knows any boundaries. 

Sometimes he wonders if he was bound to gain almost everything he ever wished for, only to realize he’s _ still _ not satisfied. So _ far _ from that, it’s hard to hope it’s even possible to change. 

“_Is _ there something I need to worry about?” he asks. 

Gawain’s face changes. He opens his mouth to answer, then closes it abruptly as some noise seems to catch his attention. A moment later Maleagant hears it too: the rustling of leaves, the twig snapping under someone’s foot, the sound of _ steps _ getting closer. 

There is no way the can continue this talk if they wish it to remain private. 

Maleagant grits his teeth, annoyed beyond measure at the intruder. He _ knows _ that without hearing the answer his treacherous mind will generously provide him with numerous worst-case scenarios. 

He’s sure even now they won’t be far from reality.

Maleagant turns on his heels to see who dared to disrupt his morning, but his irritation helplessly dims when he spots _ Arthur_, whose steps are steady and swift, whose face alights with genuine joy the moment their eyes meet. 

It’s clear that Arthur didn’t leave the castle for a light stroll. His clothes are unusually dark and sturdy enough to provide basic defense in a fight, and there is a sword hanging on his side. From the looks of it, he’s fully determined to join the training. 

“Maleagant,” Arthur smiles warmly, then turns to give a quick nod to his knight. “Gawain. I’m glad you two are still here. I was afraid you’d be finished by the time I found you.” 

“We are,” Gawain says. “I’m afraid King Maleagant is too good for me, so it was over fairly quickly. Maybe you’ll have somewhat better luck.” 

There is a hint of teasing in his voice, which isn’t that unusual between these two, it’s the suggestion itself that catches Maleagant off guard. Somehow the thought of crossing the blades with Arthur never even entered his head, but— 

Arthur’s eyes light up and he looks positively _ eager _ like _ this _ was his plan all along. 

“I will leave then, if my kings don’t mind,” Gawain smiles. “I may need some time to lick my wounds.” 

Maleagant barely stops himself from rolling his eyes, although a tiny part of him _ is _ pleased by the fact that his skills are acknowledged. He worked hard to hone them, lacking that natural talent Arthur seems to possess. He needed to compensate for his lean frame, his relative lack of strength, his body’s reluctance to put on any muscle, and he _ did_. He used those flaws to his own advantage, eventually becoming unparalleled amongst the nobles— 

At least until he lost to _ Arthur_, which very well might’ve been a fluke. 

Maleagant narrows his eyes, not paying much attention to Gawain’s departure and instead solely focused on Arthur. Maybe the sparring isn’t such a bad idea. He’d like to see for himself how well they are truly matched, but at the same time— 

At the same time, he can’t get rid of an unpleasant feeling that settles deep in his stomach, the one he has no name to but already detests. 

The thought of this sparring reminds Maleagant too sharply how little time has passed since he fought Arthur with full intention to kill, how insignificant seem their weeks of peace compared to five years of rivalry. 

_ Who _ will he see in the heat of battle? A lover or an enemy? 

“Maleagant?” Arthur calls for him tentatively, his forehead scrunched and his whole expression incomprehensibly charming. “I didn't mean to seem presumptions, but I would like it very much if you agreed to be my sparring partner. I admit, I’ve been looking forward to that for— quite a while.” 

He grins, a little sheepish and a little mischievous, genuine like he always is, and _ of course _ Maleagant can’t simply refuse him. He has no true reason for that aside from that foolish conflict in his soul, but he _ won’t _ voice it. He’ll see how it goes.

Maleagant answers with a smirk on his lips and a challenge in his eyes. 

“I do hope your wound healed up nicely, for I have no intention to go easy on you.” 

Arthur’s eyes sparkle with anticipation and mirth, bright and captivating and unfairly beautiful. They are, perhaps, one of Maleagant’s favorite features of his husband— right along with his soft pliant mouth and his frankly gorgeous ass. 

He’d like to enjoy all of them fully when they are done. After all, there is nothing like a good fuck after a good fight, no matter who will go under. 

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

Arthur shrugs off his fur-lined cloak and then, without the slightest hesitation, unsheathes his sword. 

It is _ Excalibur_, Maleagant notices with an unexpected thrill. There is no place for dull swords even in a mock fight, the sharper the blade the bigger respect for your sparring partner, and there is no sword sharper than the one Arthur wields. 

Perhaps it will grant his master yet another victory. 

Maleagant smiles viciously, unsheathing his own sword. His fight with Gawain was nothing but a warm-up, he’s still on the peak of his strength and fully ready to face his husband. Much as he promised, he _ won’t _ go easy on him. 

Tightening his grip on the hilt of his sword, Maleagant meets Arthur’s eyes, wordlessly inviting him to start a fight, _ daring _ him to strike first. 

He does. 

Arthur’s attack is swift and brutal. He’s not holding back, willing to trust his partner to defend himself. Their blades clash violently, trembling from the sheer force of the strike. For a brief moment, Maleagant feels his arm go numb, and he has to take half a step back not to lose his balance. 

He recovers quickly. 

Making a sharp turn, he strikes back, _ missing _ Arthur by a hair, but it’s enough to assure Maleagant that he was right in his assessment. He _ is _ quicker, lighter and swifter and much more precise. Now, when his mind isn’t clouded by desperation and rage and desire to prove himself better, he’s capable of showing his skill in full. 

The only witness whose opinion on him matters is here with him. 

The fight is quick to pull them in. It’s clearly nothing but a training, both of them seem to favor more complicated figures, _ showing off _ instead of aiming to kill. Their blades barely meet. Maleagant ducks and dodges and stalls, determined to find out just how long Arthur’s stamina will hold. 

Arthur is _ good_, there is no surprise here. He’s powerful and agile and seems to possess an uncanny ability to predict his opponent’s movements, but he’s also too rash. He puts too much strength in his strikes, he fights with his whole body and _ will _ tire quickly. Especially considering his still recovering health. 

Maleagant already feels sweat running down his back, but Arthur’s whole face is red from exertion and his breaths sound heavier too. Soon he’ll start making mistakes. _ Soon _ Maleagant will use one of them to secure his victory. 

He will make none of his own. He did the last time, when he allowed himself to believe he had already won, but now he knows not to trust his luck. 

Maleagant side-steps, skillfully avoiding another attack and deliberately putting the sun behind his back. He considers saying something, perhaps a mockery or an encouragement. Something provocative, though Arthur’s eyes already seem darker and not just from the heat of their fight. 

Maleagant sends him a smile, open and genuine, one of those he learned to wield like a weapon, fully cognizant of how _weak _ Arthur is for them. 

_ Of course _ it works. Arthur falters, just a little, just _ enough _ to forget his tactics and make his first and last mistake. 

After that, it’s pretty much over. 

For a moment, the sun blinds Arthur, but he doesn’t stop his strike. It’s fast and heavy and off-target, and Maleagant doesn’t even _ try _ to block it. He falls on his knee, bending almost in half to let the blade pass above him, and then he doesn’t hesitate to use the opportunity to make sure that _ his _ attack will land. 

He barely remembers to turn his blade flat and aim a little higher to avoid the barely-scarred wound on Arthur’s side. It still makes an _ impact, _ for Arthur loses his footing and falls, his sword awkwardly grazing the ground. 

Maleagant gets on his feet swiftly, ready to deliver his next — _his_ _last_ — strike. 

Arthur barely has enough time to roll onto his back, and he’s _not_ quick enough to defend himself. He lose. Maleagant presses the tip of his blade to Arthur’s heaving chest, and it’s hard not to think how painfully _ familiar _ this is. 

The last time their positions were reversed. 

It was _ Maleagant _ lying on the ground, panting and trying to push away the pain. It was _ Arthur_, triumphant and holding his enemy’s life in his hands. 

But then, Maleagant has no intention to take Arthur’s life. Not for a moment he thought this sparring to be anything but a mock fight, and this is more than anything speaks of the _ trust _ they build between them. 

It seemed so impossible, yet here they are. 

Maleagant _ won _ and doesn’t feel bitter. He has no wish to gloat, content to enjoy the warmth of satisfaction spreading through his chest. He _ can _ best Arthur, and it doesn’t matter that he’d never be this calm if their fight were real. It doesn’t matter that Arthur is yet to reach his full potential and Maleagant is already on his peak. It’s still a _ victory_, good and fair, and it tastes so sweet. 

“It seems that I won.” Maleagant licks his dry lips. 

Arthur raises his eyes to look at him. He’s still breathing heavily, his lips are slightly parted and his eyes impossibly bright. He grins, broad and genuine, and then lets go of his sword without the faintest hesitation. 

“It seems that you did,” he says. “Whatever you are going to do with me now?” 

There are so many _ ideas _ rushing through Maleagant’s mind at these words. They fill his heart with elation, his body with heat. Arthur is so _ beautiful _ this moment, sprawled on the ground, defeated and perfectly ready to _ submit_. 

It was one of the sweetest discoveries about him, his willingness — his _ eagerness _ — to give up his power, and Maleagant has no problem taking the reins and giving Arthur exactly what he needs. 

What he _ needs _ is a strong hand, someone to take control and order him around. Maleagant knows Arthur finds a peculiar thrill in this—

They _ both _ do. 

They are perfectly compatible in bed, and even if Maleagant has never considered himself a terribly sexual person, he finds it hard to refuse Arthur’s advances. It would be foolish and pointless to fight his own desire, and now— 

Now, he can already feel the heat pooling low in his stomach. Anticipation fills his soul to the brim, and he _ knows _ Arthur feels that too. He’s impatient to see what will come next, almost _ desperate_, and that’s a perfect reason to stall a little longer. 

“Maleagant,” Arthur pleads, his voice low and pleasantly hoarse.

Maleagant smirks. 

If they weren’t at risk of being discovered, he would’ve answered that plea. He would’ve stripped Arthur bare and fucked him with his fingers until he was _ begging _ for more. Maleagant has no doubt it would’ve happened. He’s perfectly aware of how much Arthur _ enjoys _ being pleasured like this. 

One day he’ll discover if he can make Arthur come without even touching his cock. Not _ today, _ but soon enough. 

Maleagant tosses his sword aside, not caring about where it lands. He doesn’t offer Arthur his hand, instead— He lowers himself _ atop _ of him, straddling his hips and earning himself a startled half-moan. 

Relief washes over Arthur’s face as Maleagant leans down to kiss him, deep and slow, wishing to savor every moment it lasts. He tightens his fingers on Arthur’s wrists, keeping him firmly in place, then presses his mouth to his throat, his warm and salty skin. 

Arthur’s hips buckle. 

He’s _ rushing _ in this too, and once again Maleagant is pleased to know he has much better control. 

“So I won,” he repeats the sweetest of words, his lips grazing the shell of Arthur’s ear, “and so you lose. You’re defeated and mine. Whatever I am going to do with you?” 

He swears Arthur _ whimpers _ at that, his throat bobbles and he swallows heavily. His arms twitch, but Maleagant’s grip is strong. 

“Gods, Maleagant. Whatever you wish for, just— do _ something_.” 

To see Arthur like this, pleading, begging, completely at Maleagant’s mercy is the best prize he could hope for, but he is _ greedy _ and he will take just a little more. 

“I would,” he says, placing a light kiss to the hollow of Arthur’s throat. “But did you _ deserve _ it?” 

The moan of frustration sounds immensely _ satisfying _ to Maleagant’s ears, but then he finally allows his smirk to morph into a smile. Catching Arthur’s gaze, he lets go of his wrist to gently stroke his cheek. 

“Don’t you worry,” he says with a bit exaggerated sweetness. “I _ can _ be merciful. You will get your consolation prize, just not here.” 

Maleagant kisses Arthur one last time, then gets on his feet and straightens his tunic. It does nothing to hide how hard he is, but it’s not like Arthur isn’t aware of how much he’s _ wanted_. 

Arthur exhales and purses his lips, almost _ pouts _, which looks childish and out of place, but at least he voices no complaints. With a faint grunt, he stands up as well. 

“You’re going to be the death of me,” he grumbles, and Maleagant _ knows _ it’s nothing but a joke, but for some reason he can’t ignore the sharp unease that settles in his stomach. 

“I _ won’t _ be,” he says. 

There is no lightness in his words, they sound almost solemn, and _ of course _ Arthur notices. 

He raises his gaze to meet Maleagant’s. He looks surprised for a moment, but then his features seem to soften and a quiet affection shines through his eyes. Maleagant won’t admit it aloud, but he cherishes this feeling much more than desire, even if it is— broader, less _ personal_. Just a part of who Arthur is. 

“No, of course not,” Arthur says, his tone equally serious, though he refrains from asking what brought this. 

Maleagant is grateful for that. 

“It was a good fight,” he says evenly. 

There is still a _ tension _ between them that has nothing to do with lingering arousal, and they both seem to be much less eager to return to the castle.

“It was,” Arthur nods. “We should do this again sometime later. But now, let’s just— let’s go home.”

Home isn’t the word Maleagant would use to call Camelot. He still doesn’t feel _ right _ in those spacious and luxurious chambers he shares with Arthur, and his own seem colder still. 

He wonders if this will change. He wonders if his fears, his dissatisfaction, and unhappiness will ever go away or at least stop drowning those rare moments when he feels content. 

He wonders if at the end of the day he won’t be the death of _ Arthur_, but of what they _ have_, precious and fragile and too easy to break. 

He wonders if that’s the fate he can escape.

This time, no matter how hard he tries, he can’t make himself hope for the best. 


	13. The Round Table

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... today (yes, it's Valentine's Day) marks the second anniversary of me becoming absolutely obsessed with Arthur/Maleagant.  
_ Yay._  


The Great Hall is empty and eerily silent. The servants left after they placed in the middle of it a heavy round table, sturdy and large enough to sit a few dozens of people, the kings and their kin serving the crown. 

Amongst them, there will be those who Arthur trusts with all of his heart. His beloved friends, Gawain, Percival, and Bors. Once faithful followers of King Uther, Sirs Lamorack, Gaheris, and Tristan. Sir Kay, his brother in everything but blood. Sir Lancelot, the latest addition to the court, the first and so far the only one whom Arthur knighted by his hand. He will extend the same courtesy to both Cynbel and Drest once he gets Maleagant’s approval, for they are _ his _ people first. 

There will be those who stand much higher than the knights, the _ kings _ of once disjoined lands whose loyalty is questionable and fleeting. King Leodegrance is one of them. King Lot, Gawain’s father and Arthur’s own uncle, is another. King Bagdemagus is expected to join them as well. 

The letters are already sent, each of them personal and thoughtful and full of promises of _ power_. 

This may be the only thing capable of saving them now. 

With a heavy sigh, Arthur leans onto the solid and warm wood of the table his father — High-King Uther — once owned. It fails to make him feel any more grounded. It does nothing to chase away the worry that settles deep in his soul or the guilt that plagues his heart. 

He was so _ carefree_, so foolish and naive, and he forgot what it means to wear the crown and have people depending on you. It isn’t simply about political alliances that still seem too complicated to him, it isn’t about trade rates or fiscal decisions or the king’s quarrels. 

He remembers so vividly the pained, bloodshot eyes of the man who threw himself on his knees and begged his king to _ save _ them. 

The people of Britain were _ dying _ while Arthur basked in the happiness of the moments he spent with his husband, while he laughed and loved and knew no suffering. And while he _ needed _ to stay in Gore in order to recover from his wound, here, in Camelot, he still was too consumed by his worry about Maleagant fitting in, too busy making sure he didn’t feel the burden of people’s lingering distrust. 

He didn’t quite succeed in that and failed to see something much bigger, much more _ important _ no matter that sometimes he wished to pretend it wasn’t so.

It took the plea of his people, broken and bloodied, to wake him up and make him realize how _ worthless _ of a king he was. 

Didn’t he tell Maleagant that he cared about the fate of Britain? Didn’t he accuse him of not having his people’s prosperity at the forefront of his mind, while he himself fell into the same trap? 

Arthur exhales and grips the table tighter till his knuckles turn white. He hopes so desperately that it’s not too late to save his kingdom and that his decision will bear fruits. 

They _ can’t _ afford any quarrels right now, the luxury of that cost them too much. 

He did everything he could, gave it all to soothe the ego of the kings who pledged their loyalty to him but still detested each other, still were at each other’s throats, striving to prove their superior worth and importance.

There will be no worth or importance when everything is lost. 

But Arthur _ won’t _ let it come to this. 

The sound of footsteps, light and swift and _ familiar_, makes Arthur startle. He raises his head, and for the briefest of moments, he feels genuinely _ relieved _ to see his husband— until he notices the expression on his face, the deep scowl that distorts his features and makes them stand out, sharp and severe. It steals the last traces of his softness, this clenched jaw and the firm set of the mouth, this unbearable coldness of the eyes. 

Arthur’s heart sinks. 

“Care to tell me,” Maleagant demands, “what is the meaning of this?” 

Arthur hasn’t seen him this enraged since that fateful clash between them when Maleagant spat accusations in his face, ready to fight and ready to kill. It is a painful reminder of the days Arthur thought well behind them, but he doesn’t let it distract him again from what truly matters now. 

“The meaning of what?” Arthur straightens his back and barely refrains from crossing his arms. “Did I do something to offend you?” 

There is no gentleness in his words, he has so little left at this moment, but the answer to his question still means a great deal to him. He may have been forced to change his priorities, but the thought that he could’ve unwittingly hurt Maleagant is _ unbearable_. 

Maleagant narrows his eyes, still angry and almost hateful, and his mouth pulls into an ugly sneer. 

“And you _ dare _ to ask,” he spits venomously. “You didn’t even see fit to inform me of your little _ redecoration._ The Round Table, what a grand idea!” 

Arthur grits his teeth. He’s reeling from the confusion that fills him, and Maleagant’s words feel so _ staggering _ this moment when he desperately needs his husband’s support, but— 

There is also a voice of doubt at the back of his mind, the first tendrils of _ guilt _ deep in his heart. 

Painful as they may be, Maleagant’s accusations are not unfounded. It doesn’t matter that Arthur fully believes the decision he made was the right one, he— he shouldn’t have made it alone. 

He’s _ not _ alone, not anymore. 

“I did what I had to do,” he says, managing to sound firm and not defensive. “There was no other choice, and even if you don’t agree—” 

“_ Of course _ I don’t agree.” Maleagant comes closer to Arthur, his steps swift and decisive. He catches his gaze and doesn’t let go. “Have you forgotten your vows?” 

“What are you talking about?” 

Arthur hasn’t forgotten _ anything_, not even a single one of them. He upheld them all, even those he once thought impossible. He loves his husband, he’s faithful to him, he— 

“I’m not your gods damned wife, Arthur. I am the _ High-King_,” Maleagant’s voice trembles, it goes _ too high_, and it sounds like maybe he can’t quite believe in what he’s saying. Like maybe he’s trying to convince _ himself _ first. 

Arthur fights the urge to close his eyes and _ hide _ from the bitterness in his husband’s eyes that speaks of his own failure.

He tried so hard to make him feel _ welcome _ in Camelot. Leaving his homelands, Maleagant lost whatever comfort they offered to him, he noticed too keenly the barest of the knights’ disapprovals or the lack of respect from the kings. 

It _ hurt _ him deeply, but the truth was certainly not as grim as he perceived. Most of those who had a chance to get to know Maleagant better clearly saw that he wasn’t a monster the rumors painted him to be, that he and Arthur were truly _ good _ together. 

Unfortunately, earning _ respect _ proved to be a much trickier thing. It had nothing to do with Maleagant’s personality or his actions, it was his quick accession to the throne that brought dissatisfaction to those who used to be his equal but fell so far below. 

It took Arthur some time to realize that the only reason the kings chose to follow him was that the crown was his _ birthright_. His victory didn’t mean their loss. There was a time when all of them submitted to his father and thus accepting him was easy, but if he were one of the contestants in the fated tournament they would’ve despised him just as much as they despise Maleagant. 

They _ envy _ him, the prince of Gore that became their High-King. 

They crave something he possesses now, his _ power _ they can’t reach. 

This is why Arthur _ had _ to offer just it if just a meager part. 

“I—” he starts, though he’s unsure how to put these thoughts into the right words. 

Maleagant doesn’t give him a chance. 

“You promised to be my equal,” he says. “You promised to share everything with me, and yet how _ quick _ you were to spit on these vows and give _ my _ power away. It’s not yours to share, Arthur. Not anymore.” 

He jabs a finger at his chest, sharp and accusing, and this is so utterly _ unfair_. Maleagant’s judgment is swift and unforgiving, and Arthur can’t— he _ can’t _ be patient and understanding with him, not _ now_. 

“It _ is _ mine,” he answers harshly. “You are the High-King, but so am I. I can’t afford to be this _ petty _ when my people are dying.”

He doesn’t shout, but Maleagant _ recoils _ and something akin of hurt flashes in his gaze. 

It’s not enough to make Arthur pause. 

“Don’t you understand?” He grabs Maleagant’s shoulders and looks into his eyes, he so desperately wishes to be _ heard_. “My people, _ our _ people are dying, and all you care about is power!” 

There is no denying, not anymore, the hurt that coils tightly in the depths of Maleagant’s eyes. His mouth pulls into a bitter frown, and Arthur almost — not _ quite _ — regrets he didn’t keep silent.

He should’ve at least chosen different words. 

Maleagant shakes off Arthur’s grip on his shoulders and steps away to put some distance between them. His nostrils flare as he takes a deeper breath.

“What I _ care _ about,” he says, voice oddly quiet and each word chosen with careful precision, “is that you forgot all of the things I’ve tried to teach you. You can’t give the power away with such an ease—“

“I _ can_.”

“_ No_,” the word sounds so sharp, it’s almost enough to cut through Arthur’s conviction. “If everyone is your equal, what does it mean to be the High-King? You should be respected by your subjects. Your word should be final for them.” 

Arthur exhales. 

He doesn’t feel half as angry as he was just a few moments ago. He doesn’t _ want _ to be angry at Maleagant. It may be easy to blame him for the faults they share, but is it _ right _ ? Wasn’t _ he _ too quick with his judgment?

He still doesn’t know why Maleagant feels so irked by his actions, if he’s truly enraged by the perceived loss of his power or simply hurt that Arthur solely made the decision affecting them both, but— 

He’s in his _ right_. Arthur may feel guilty and restless and too ready to snap, but he should’ve listened to Maleagant’s reasoning instead of accusing him of things not proven. 

“It will be,” he says much softer than before. “My word and your word, no matter how round this table is. It _ will _ be respected. And if one day any of our knights will come to believe in their case strongly enough to oppose us, then maybe— Maybe their opinion is worth being listened to.” 

Maleagant scoffs. 

“You listened to them before,” he says. “It doesn’t change anything.” 

“No, it doesn’t.” Arthur fights the urge to reach out and touch Maleagant, but there is still too much wariness and hurt in him. It won’t be taken well. “It’s for _ their _ comfort, it won’t affect _ us_. You must understand—“ 

“I do. I understand it better than you think, I—” 

Maleagant pauses. His eyes search Arthur’s face as if he hopes to find there an explanation for his actions that wasn’t put into words. 

Arthur doesn’t think he has a good one. Even after their numerous lessons in politics, he still chose to listen to his heart before the advice of the heavy dusty tomes. 

He chose his heart before his husband, his _ partner_, and that is much more shameful. 

“I know why you think you have no other choice but to do this,” Maleagant says, his voice dispassionate and even. “It might even seem like a good idea. But the reality is that you’re showing them our _ weakness._ You’re willing to bend the rules because of their whims, you ask when you should order. And _ they _ should obey you.” 

“Out of fear?”

“Out of reason.” 

Arthur huffs a mirthless laugh. Maleagant is right — _ of course _ he is — but he may not realize how truly desperate they are. They have no time to teach the kings obedience, the cost of these lessons will be _ people’s lives. _

“I doubt they know the meaning of this word,” he jokes weakly. He shakes his head. “I can’t disagree with you on this, but it’s not that easy.” 

“It never is.” 

There is a hint of a smile curving Maleagant’s lips. It is sardonic more than amused but it’s enough to loosen the tight knot in Arthur’s chest. Just enough so he can breathe. 

“I don’t think I can find the right words to explain myself. You know how hopeless I am when it comes to politics.” He allows himself a self-deprecating smile to turn his husband’s a little more gentle. “But deep in my heart, I feel I made the right decision. It’s not _ perfect, _it’s just the best we can afford right now.” 

In truth, Arthur believes it’s not a sign of weakness to offer something you don’t _ have _ to offer. There could be a certain strength found in giving up power, but even if Maleagant is capable of understanding this, he surely isn’t ready to hear this. 

“I’m _ sorry_,” Arthur says instead. 

He wills his eyes to soften, his voice sounds like he means it, and he _ does_. He raises his hand to trace with his thumb the tender skin under Maleagant’s lower lashes, perhaps foolishly hoping to smoothen the lingering sharpness of his expression. 

“I’m truly sorry I didn’t think to come to you first,” he continues. “I should’ve asked for your opinion. I’m still unused to how things changed since our marriage, but that’s no excuse. I— I was _ wrong_, but the decision I made is the one I firmly believe in. I will stand by it, and I’m _ begging _ you, please, accept it.” 

He has no strength to fight Maleagant when he so desperately needs his support. He won’t allow himself to waver even if he doesn’t get it, but that’s the outcome he wants to avoid at all costs. 

He won’t be ashamed to get on his knees if that’s what it takes. 

For a long moment, Maleagant simply watches him, impassive and silent, but then the corner of his mouth jerks up and his lips fold into a slightly wicked smile. He covers Arthur’s palm with his own and presses a short kiss to his pulse point. 

“I _ do _ love when you beg me.” His eyes seem darker, though it may not be the desire that lurks in their depths. “Though I would prefer the circumstances to be different.” 

Arthur feels his heartbeat quicken, impossible to miss when Maleagant’s lips still graze the skin of his wrist. The warmth pools low in his stomach, and it’s almost enough to make him forget about the turmoil and guilt and the reason they fought. 

_ Almost_. 

He isn’t going to make the same mistake twice, but he _ can _ afford a little distraction. 

“I’ll make it up to you,” he promises. “Whatever you want from me, I’ll give it all.” He hesitates for a moment, still a little uncomfortable to be this bold in these matters. “You know that under _ different circumstances_, the power is always and fully yours.” 

“_ Yes_,” Maleagant says slowly, then finally lets go of Arthur’s hand. “And this power I certainly won’t share.” 

“Gods, I hope not.” 

Arthur’s smile is a bit shaky, _ unsure _ much as he feels, but as he leans in to silently ask Maleagant for permission to kiss him, he’s given it without even traces of doubt. 

Their kiss is sensual and slow, it is about _ connection_, not passion, but this is what Arthur needs. It doesn’t solve all of their problems, but it does make things a little bit better and a whole lot easier to bear. 

Arthur hides his face in the crook of Maleagant’s neck and breathes in the smell of him, the familiar bitterness of herbs and the sharp tang of leather and smoke.

He wishes he could never let go. 

“Thank you,” he murmurs, gently rubbing his nose on Maleagant’s throat. 

He’s genuinely _ grateful _ for Maleagant’s acceptance. It couldn’t have been easy for him to give up, but that’s what he did when Arthur needed it truly. 

He’s _ here _ for him, he may be the only person capable of challenging him without making him doubt himself, and not for the first time Arthur feels eternally lucky to have him. 

Not for the first time he finds no words to express it. 

Maleagant hums. He raises his hand to gently ruffle the short hair at Arthur’s nape, then breaks their embrace and takes half a step back. 

“Later this day,” he says, smoothing the fur of Arthur’s coat and brushing away the tiny specks of dust, “we will discuss this issue further. Even if I’m going to accept your decision, I’m still not happy about how you _ presented _ it.”

Maleagant winces as if simply thinking about it still pains him, and Arthur is ready to admit that the finer details of his plan may have been far from perfect. 

Still, if they are willing to work on it together, everything will surely fall into place. 

“We will,” he nods. “The final words will be said at the gathering and they will come from _ both _ of us. There is still a chance to change a few things, and this time I promise I’ll listen to what you have to say.” 

“I’ll take you to that.” 

Maleagant doesn’t seem quite satisfied — quite _ happy _ — with how their talk went, but Arthur didn’t expect it to be any different. He’s not happy either, too many things were left unspoken, but— 

Later, he promises himself. 

Later they’ll find the right solution for them both. 

“I’ll see you tonight, then,” Arthur murmurs gently. 

He doesn’t want to part just yet, but he knows that Maleagant prefers to keep to his chosen schedule when he’s away from home. During this time of the day, he needs his quiet and his solitude, and the castle library offers him that. 

Besides, Arthur still has plenty of things to think about. 

He almost misses a flicker of some unnamed emotion in Maleagant’s eyes that passes too quickly and leaves nothing behind. Nothing but a vague unease that creeps into Arthur’s soul and settles there firmly. 

Maleagant nods. 

“Until then.” 

He turns on his heels and heads out of the hall. His footsteps are unhurried, but there is too much tension in his ramrod-straight back. Arthur tries and fails to push back the unease that only grows stronger. Perhaps he made a mistake, perhaps he said something wrong or didn’t say what he should’ve said, perhaps— 

“He’s not an easy man to love, isn’t he?” 

There is a voice behind his back, serenely calm and slightly amused, but caught in his worry Arthur doesn’t truly register another’s presence. 

“Isn’t he?” he repeats absentmindedly. 

It doesn’t feel like the truth. Maleagant is certainly not an easy man, he’s challenging and endlessly complicated, but _ loving _ him— Loving him doesn’t feel like a hardship. Falling for him happened so naturally, it seemed it was bound to be. 

Arthur blinks. 

The realization that he’s not alone in the hall finally catches up to him. He turns abruptly to see _ Merlin _ standing next to the round table, his posture relaxed and his hands hidden in the folds of his sleeves.

“How long have you been here?” Arthur demands, trying and failing to hide his embarrassment at the thought that the druid might’ve witnessed an intimate moment between him and his husband. 

“Long enough.” Merlin’s mouth twists into a semblance of a smile. “I may have learned about your preferences much more than I’ve ever wanted to know.” 

“I thought there is nothing you _ don’t _ know,” Arthur retorts. 

He feels mortified and defensive, and that certainly doesn’t help to clear a mess in his mind. 

“There are some things that I choose not to know,” Merlin says pointedly. “I had hope that this one would stay amongst them.” 

Arthur laughs despite himself, amused by the look of genuine discomfort on the druid’s face, but his mirth doesn’t last long. He finally remembers the first thing Merlin said, the question that broke the silence, and it serves well to sober him up. 

“You still don’t approve of our marriage,” he says. 

They haven’t truly had an opportunity to discuss this, but Arthur assumed— 

In his naivety, he assumed that things have _ changed_. With how Gawain seemed to warm up to Maleagant and Bors straight up adored him, Arthur thought the others would eventually accept their unconventional marriage as well. 

“I prefer to refrain from making a final judgment,” Merlin says. 

His face is unreadable once more, and Arthur can only guess what’s going on in his mind. He wonders if there is a reason for his disapproval, if maybe the Gods revealed to him some awful truth unknown to mere mortals. 

It bothers him much more than he’d like to admit. 

“Merlin,” Arthur says quietly, “There is war ahead of us, a challenge much bigger than anything I’ve ever faced before. I still don’t know so many things, it feels unbearable to be responsible for so many lives, and— I _ need _ Malegant by my side.” 

“You don’t _ need _ him.” 

“I want him then,” he insists. “I am so _ happy _ to have him. Him, and no one else.” 

Arthur never imagined the weight of the crown to be so heavy, and he’s relieved he can share it with someone he genuinely considers to be his _ equal_. 

It has its downsides. It can’t be an easy thing for the two kings to rule, they both are stubborn and set in their ways. Maleagant’s pride is a fragile thing, too easily wounded, and Arthur simply _ can’t _ submit to him in matters of the crown the same way he does in bed. 

They fought for the first time today and it won’t be the last, but they will learn from this and only grow stronger. They have a potential to be _ great _ together, of that Arthur has no doubt, but the thing that matters most— 

Arthur _ loves _ Maleagant. 

He needs no other reason for wanting their marriage to last. 

“There are paths you’re meant to walk alone, Arthur,” Merlin says. “There are things in your future I do not yet see clearly, but you should be wary of them. Don’t place your trust in those who don’t deserve it.” 

“I don’t,” Arthur answers simply. 

He _ is _ bothered by this ominous prediction, but it fails to shake his strongest conviction that Maleagant will _ never _ be the one to betray him. 

No matter what Merlin’s final judgment will be, Arthur has already made his own.

Nothing will make him give up on it.


	14. Sister

The Great Hall is filled with people. The food on the tables is rich, the wine is aplenty, and the music is just as loud and disjointed as the guests’ laughter is. It’s been a while since the kings and their kin all gathered in the halls of Camelot, and longer still since the occasion could be considered joyful. 

Both nobles and ordinary folk are equally eager to celebrate Beltane, clinging to their chance to distract themselves from the war they can no longer ignore. 

The last few months left its mark on the whole of Britain, but with the gathering of the Round Table and the kings’ armies joining their cause they were finally able to push the invaders back. They won the only major battle so far, but even this much did wonders to boost people’s morale and give the kingdom time to recover. 

Arthur was the one to lead the campaign, while Maleagant stayed behind in the capital and tended to political matters. He listened to the nobles’ complaints and people’s requests, he _ ruled _ like he’s always wished to. 

They each had their roles and each succeeded in playing them well, and so the grand celebration they are having right now feels fully deserved. 

Of course, Maleagant detests every moment of it. 

“Could you be so kind as to remind me, dearest heart,” Maleagant murmurs with perhaps too much venom lacing his words, “_why _ do we have to suffer this farce?” 

The feast itself he could deal with, but the gaggle of traveling artists boldly taking the stage is simply_ too much_. 

Arthur’s expression remains impassive, the perfect image of polite interest, and yet his eyes light up with boyish mirth. 

“That, _ Your Majesty_,” Arthur says quietly, entirely too aware how much it _ pleases _ Maleagant to hear this title, “might be because our esteemed guests are in dire need of some cheap entertainment. Just look at them.” 

Maleagant does, even if he has no particular desire to do that. The guests, especially the dames, seem to be utterly enamored with the idea of watching the show and it’s quite clear they won’t tolerate being denied it. 

Juvenal, Malegant thinks wryly, happened to be quite right in his assessment. The crowd no longer needs anything but _ panem et circenses. _

He feels his lips curl into a grimace of disdain. 

A while ago, when his father visited Camelot to take his place behind the Round Table, he took an opportunity to advise Malegant on the issue of _ how people work. _

He seemed to be under the impression that Maleagant lacks this knowledge, but in truth, it’s the _ opposite_. He gets people too well, it’s just that what he sees in their souls is often so repulsive he’s tempted to refuse to acknowledge it as his reality. 

“Good lords!” 

The deep, theatrically loud voice distracts Maleagant from his thoughts. It belongs to one of the artists, a woman whose face is hidden under the veil. 

She seems to be the one leading the group. 

“We have been traveling from place to place,” she says, commanding the public’s attention with surprising ease, “telling the most fascinating tales of Britain. On this day, I wish to offer Their Majesties the one befitting their names.” 

“It must be a good story, then,” Arthur says, a faintly amused smile curving his lips. 

Maleagant will never admit it aloud, but he _ loves _ this smile. He loves those moments when Arthur allows himself to act like the true High-King, commanding and powerful and just a little bit indulgent to his people’s whims. It is a part of who he _ is_, and while Maleagant has long since accepted Arthur’s lingering naivety and his overly affectionate nature, it’s still pleasing to see him wearing the crown with the dignity it requires. 

It _ suits _ him and more often than not the thought of it doesn’t taste bitter.

“Without a doubt!” the woman exclaims, and then adds with an entirely feigned sorrow in her voice: “Alas, my tale won’t be of happy love.” 

All dames in the hall sigh in disappointment and Arthur simply shakes his head, but a vague sense of unease creeps into Maleagant’s heart. He can’t shake the feeling that there is _ something _ in the woman’s words, though he wills his expression to show nothing but faint boredom. 

He leans back in his chair, drums his fingers on the armrest and folds his lips into a thin and rather unpleasant smile. 

“How bold of you to dedicate to your kings the tale that some would consider a bad omen,” he says. 

It is preposterous, _ offensive _ to present the newlywed couple a story of unhappy love. It’s nothing but a mockery of their marriage and an unpleasant reminder that many people are still firmly set against it. Before, Maleagant felt mildly irritated by the idea of suffering through the traveling artists’ performance, but now this feeling morphs into _ anger_. It mixes well with the sickening foreboding that grows stronger too. 

Perhaps it’s entirely unfounded, perhaps his judgment is too quick, but Arthur is too prone to trusting people blindly. _ Maleagant _ would rather remain suspicious. 

“Some,” the woman easily agrees, “though _ surely _ not you.” 

“I don’t believe in omens.” Maleagant’s smile turns crooked. “But I’m perfectly capable of recognizing when one means offense.” 

He shivers slightly when Arthur’s hand finds his and squeezes his fingers in silent reassurance. Maleagant doesn’t _ need _ it, he’s perfectly collected and calm, but he appreciates the gesture all the same. 

“I’m sure it’s just a misunderstanding,” Arthur says placatingly. “But tell me, enigmatic stranger, is there a reason why you hide your face?” 

There is nothing but a calm curiosity in his voice, but they’ve known each other long enough that Maleagant has no trouble recognizing the tension underlining his words. 

Arthur is certainly not as carefree as he wishes to be seen. 

“I wouldn’t wish for my visage to overshadow the tale,” the woman answers smoothly. “And I quite _ insist _ that you hear it. I’ll have but one more thing to ask of you.”

“And what would that be?” Arthur raises his eyebrows. 

“Why, for the most beautiful of the dames to join my play!” 

The hall bursts in excited whispers and guesses about who will be chosen for the role and this is just another unpleasant reminder that neither Maleagant nor Arthur has any true power to forbid them from seeing the show. 

It feels _ humiliating _ to submit to the crowd, especially when Maleagant wants nothing more than to leave the feast early and ensure that his and Arthur’s story is at the very least _ satisfying_. 

“And who do you have in mind?” Arthur chuckles, and for a split moment, Maleagant truly believes that he might be genuinely entertained.

But then, Arthur’s thumb slides across his knuckles, soothingly and gently. He doesn’t forget nor does he dismiss Maleagant’s displeasure and that’s why it’s easy enough to refrain from voicing it.

The woman turns towards the guests. She makes a point to look at each and every one of the ladies and only then focuses her eyes on the one she’s most likely meant to choose from the start. 

“Lady Guinevere, Your Majesties!” she exclaims. “I’m sure you would agree.” 

Arthur’s fingers squeeze Maleagant’s a little too tightly, but that’s the only thing that betrays his surprise. His eyes roam the hall, seeking Leodegrance and his daughter, and Maleagant is reminded that they weren’t properly introduced before. 

This is the first time Arthur sees lady Guinevere and the way he looks at her— 

He looks at her with unmistakable wonder, his eyes searching and troubled and utterly _ mesmerized_. 

He looks at her the way every man looks at Guinevere, the way _ Maleagant _ used to look at her what seems like a lifetime ago, but do they care that there is _ nothing _ behind this facade of beauty? 

There is _ nothing_. No bitterness, no hatred and no jealousy Maleagant possesses in abundance. 

Maleagant presses his lips into a thin line and takes his hand away from Arthur to tightly clasp his fingers together. 

“I _ do _ agree with you,” Arthur says, and _ of course _ he does. “There is no woman lovelier in the whole of Camelot. Nay, Britain! Lady Guinevere,” he catches her gaze and sends her a warm smile. “Would you be so kind as to take a part in this undoubtedly marvelous play?” 

Guinevere’s cheeks color. She seems pleased with the attention, and her answering smile is timid and sickeningly sweet. 

“Only for you, Sire.” 

The artists eagerly welcome her on their improvised stage. They present her with the mask every one of them wears, and once she dons it the play begins.

The woman in the veil is the one that takes the role of the narrator, her voice mesmerizing and deep, and while Maleagant makes sure to seem mildly bored, he can’t help but listen to every word. 

It’s not a complicated play. It tells a story of the evil king who desired another’s wife and stopped at nothing to have her. With the help of his advisor, a magician, a _ druid _ he disguised himself as the poor woman’s husband and had her like a husband would. 

One of the actors pushes Guinevere — the one who takes the wife’s role — on the floor to mimic the shameful act, but Maleagant barely pays attention to her humiliation. 

As the woman in the veil tells about the little girl who saw it all, the little girl who knew that the disguised king wasn’t her father, he feels like the things finally start to click into place. 

There are too many details that _fit _and too much genuine hatred in the woman’s promises of vengeance. It’s not just a story, it’s the _truth_. 

The truth about how Arthur was conceived.

Maleagant casts a brief look at him. He looks troubled, his mouth is pulled into a frown and his fingers grip tightly the armrests of his chair. Perhaps he doesn’t truly realize what’s going on, but he must _ feel _ that something is wrong. 

The play is almost over. It didn’t take long, it wasn’t that special, and what happened was undoubtedly terrible but far from _ uncommon_. At the end of the day, it was nothing but a vile act by the man whose morals have always been overrated. 

“That night,” the woman says after a long pause, and _ this _ must be her grand finale. “That night the king left the woman with a child in her womb. The king’s name was Uther Pendragon and his _ son— _” 

“His _ son _ I see before my eyes,” the woman finishes. 

The hall is deadly silent. _ Arthur _ is silent, shocked and utterly lost. Maleagant knows that he’d rather be angry — it’d be _ easier _ for him to be angry — but they can’t have it. 

He meets Arthur’s eyes and shakes his head. 

_ “Don’t,” _ he tries to convey without words. _ “Don’t let this get to you. Don’t let people know how much you’re hurt.” _

If there is one thing in which he and Arthur are alike, it’s that they both are quick to anger and prone to act irrationally when they’re hurt. It’s fortunate that at least one of them isn’t affected by the woman’s insinuations, but then, Maleagant has never been her target. 

Arthur takes a deep breath. With an obvious effort, he wills himself to relax, leans onto the back of his chair and still doesn’t say a thing. It seems that he trusts Maleagant to handle the situation, and that’s something he’s perfectly willing to do. 

Squeezing Arthur’s hand one last time, Maleagant steeples his fingers and pulls his lips into his most unpleasant smile. He waits until the woman pulls up the veil, revealing her harsh and undoubtedly noble features. 

They look almost eerily similar to Arthur’s. 

“That’s quite a fascinating story,” Maleagant says, his voice betraying nothing. “I can’t help but wonder, how _ dare _ you stand here accusing your king’s father of the crimes that cannot be proven?” 

Of course, he has no doubt that Uther _ is _ guilty of them, but that doesn’t truly matter. Not for _ Maleagant_, and Arthur— 

He’ll talk to him later. 

“The truth _ hurts_, doesn’t it?” The woman asks, her voice full of vicious mockery. 

She has a strong spirit, a domineering personality that easily bends weaker people to her will, but it’s quite clear to Maleagant that _ proof _ is not something she possesses.

“I’m sure you’re aware that slander is punishable by death.” He arches his eyebrows. “Of course, King Arthur is merciful, but _ I_—“ 

“Who are you?” Arthur interjects. 

Maleagant scowls, annoyed by his husband’s impatience, but lets him take the reins. 

The woman doesn’t answer right away. She strolls towards the throne, completely unfazed by the guards who visibly tense up. She doesn’t come _ too _ close, but it is clear the threat of her can be ignored no longer. 

“_I_,” she says, “am the girl from this story. The girl who saw it all.” 

There is a strain in her voice, her eyes are ablaze with anger and hurt, and she’s _ not in control. _

Maleagant can use that. 

“I recognized the man who raped my mother. Your _ mother_,” her features twist in pain. “I am Morgana. Your half-sister.” 

Arthur’s face is pale and his grip on the armrests is so tight his knuckles seem white, he’s barely holding himself together, and Maleagant _ has _ to protect him from making a mistake. 

“You certainly look alike,” he comments dryly, “but that doesn’t prove a thing. Your word isn’t enough.” 

“_Mine _ is.” 

Another’s voice in the tense silence of the hall sounds impossibly loud. It belongs to _ Merlin, _ the damned druid who’s clearly set to ruin _ everything _ Maleagant is trying to build. 

He had it under control, the woman — _ Morgana _ — couldn’t have proven anything, not her story and certainly not her royal blood. It could be so easy to get _ rid _ of her, exile her without the right to return or even execute her for slander. 

Did the druid _ see _ the flames of vengeance in her eyes? They long since consumed her soul, and now they threaten to burn _ Arthur_. 

“This woman is telling the truth,” Merlin continues, his voice otherworldly calm. “It was _ me _ who served as King Uther’s advisor. It was me who helped him disguise himself as—” 

“So I was born because of you,” Arthur interrupts harshly. “My mother died because of you.”

“Your mother...” Merlin’s voice is tinged with sadness, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “King Uther loved her to madness, and this is what ruined them both. I was nothing but a weapon in his hand, the _ fate’s _ hand. It was bound to be.”

_ Was _ it? 

How can Merlin know it? How can he wash away the blame from his conscience with such a terrifying ease? 

The anger that fills Maleagant’s soul for a moment feels _ blinding_, but he _ can’t _ allow this to rule him. 

He breathes deeply and keeps silent. 

“Sir,” Merlin pleads. “You must let your sister join the court. It is her right.” 

It _ is _ now that her story was confirmed. Maleagant sends a sharp glare towards the druid, but of course the old coot doesn’t spare him a moment of attention. 

Why would he _ do _ what he did? Why would he let this woman into Arthur’s life? 

“I—” Arthur looks lost and unsure. 

He turns to Maleagant, silently asking for guidance that won’t be denied. Even if there is nothing they can salvage now except for their dignity. 

Maleagant wills his expression to soften and sends his husband a small, reassuring smile. 

“As I said, King Arthur is merciful,” he addresses the court. “I’m sure he’s perfectly willing to accept his sister, and perhaps one day grow to love her.” 

He’d rather _ die _ than let it come to this, but voicing it wouldn’t be exactly smart. 

“Of course,” Arthur says. His voice is strained, but he sounds convincing enough to believe that the art of diplomacy isn’t completely lost on him. 

Merlin dares to look genuinely befuddled, but Morgana is _ pleased_. She got exactly what she wanted, and Maleagant knows he’ll have to be vigilant from now on. This woman might share Arthur’s blood and his looks, but their _ souls _ cannot be more different. She’s hateful and dangerous. She’s a _ threat_. 

The servants are quick to ensure that _ the king’s sister _is given a seat behind the table and a goblet of wine to soothe her thirst. The hall starts filling with whispers, questioning and troubled, but they are drowned as the music begins to play anew. 

It’s almost easy to believe that nothing of any matter happened at all. 

Arthur sags on his throne. He takes a deep breath and rubs his temples, then leans to whisper into Maleagant’s ear: 

“Remind me, why _ exactly _ can’t we burn her at the stake?” 

Maleagant lets out a sharp laugh. He meets Arthur’s eyes, still troubled and lost despite his feeble attempt to lighten the mood. His hurt runs much deeper than he lets on. 

“Bloodthirsty,” he says, deliberately keeping his tone light. “I approve.” 

Arthur’s mouth twitches in a weak attempt to form a smile, but his gaze darkens as he looks towards the end of the table where Morgana sits. She’s already engrossed in a conversation with Guinevere who seems to cling to her every word as if she wasn’t just publicly humiliated by the play. 

Maleagant can’t help but think that he’s actually _ grateful _ he didn’t marry this woman. Arthur may be naive and sometimes act like a fool, but he’s far from stupid. There is no doubt that _ he _ sees Morgana for what she is, a witch full of bitterness and hatred, a witch set to enact her vengeance, and that’s— 

“Excuse me,” Arthur murmurs. 

He pushes himself off the chair and swiftly strides towards the doors leading out of the hall. Morgana’s eyes follow his every step, and the hatred in her eyes burns so brightly it feels like it’s capable of leaving a physical mark. 

Maleagant grits his teeth. He believed that Arthur managed to get his emotions under control, but he forgot that his darling husband has never been good at this. 

He forgot that things like this are bound to cut Arthur deeply. 

The guests don’t seem to be paying much attention to their king’s abrupt departure, but they _ will _ notice if Maleagant disappears as well. He takes a deep breath. It’s not like he has much of a choice, he _ can’t _ leave Arthur to deal with this on his own. 

“It seems like the food didn’t quite agree with His Majesty,” he addresses one of the guards, keeping his tone mocking and light. “I better make sure he’s alright.” 

Surely, they won’t be missed. The guests are drunk enough that even Morgana’s dramatic arrival didn’t faze them that much. They seem to be accepting the High-King’s half-sister much easier than his chosen _ husband_. 

But then, said sister won’t have any power over them. 

Maleagant does. 

Giving the crowd the one last look of barely contained disdain, Maleagant gets on his feet to leave the Great Hall. He feels both Merlin’s judging gaze and Morgana’s calculating one but makes sure not to give them anything back.

It doesn’t take long to find Arthur. He stands near the window overseeing the courtyard, his shoulders hunched, his fingers tightly gripping the stone and his face contorted in misery. 

He raises his head when he hears Maleagant’s footsteps. 

“I’m sorry,” he breathes out. “She was _ looking _ at me, and I couldn’t— I know I should’ve stayed and pretended that everything is fine, but I—” 

“It’s alright,” Maleagant says. 

Arthur’s act, no matter how brief, was enough to fool the kings, and Morgana would’ve seen right through it even if it continued. 

She knows _ exactly _ how much she hurt her brother. 

Maleagant does too. When he looks at Arthur, his brows drawn together and the corners of his mouth pulled downwards, his eyes full of anguish and pain, he doesn’t need to wonder _ why _ he was affected so deeply. 

Arthur is beloved, but he’s also _ lonely_. He dreams of family and finding his place in the world, discovering who he truly _ is _ when he’s not wearing the crown. He dreams of being loved, unconditionally and fully, and this is a wish Maleagant has no trouble understanding. 

Taking a step forward, Maleagant raises his hand to stroke Arthur’s cheek and smoothe the tight, worried lines around his eyes. 

Affection comes easy to him, it’s something they _ both _ need. Now more than ever. 

“Do you...” Arthur says quietly, his voice unusually small. “Do you think it’s the truth? What Morgana said?” 

Maleagant lowers his hand. He doesn’t answer right away, because he doesn’t really know what answer Arthur _ wants_. Merlin confirmed Morgana’s tale and he’s _ trusted_, so the issue is not whether it is the truth, it’s— 

“I used to know king Uther,” he says. “I can’t deny that he was a good king, powerful and fair, but he wasn’t a good man.” 

He was arrogant and self-centered and horribly narrow-minded. Everything about him set Maleagant on edge, and at the time he was young enough — _ reckless _ enough — that he couldn’t hope to contain his distaste. He thinks that it may have been one of the reasons why he so desperately wished to win the throne, to _ spite _ the late king, and now— 

Now he got what he wanted and _ more_. 

He wonders what would Uther think about Maelagant marrying his only son. 

“I’m not surprised that he was capable of such an act” he continues. “And don’t let Merlin’s words fool you, Arthur, it wasn’t an act of _ love_.” 

“I know,” Arthur seems pained, but there is no hint of doubt in his voice. 

He doesn’t try to find excuses for his father’s actions, he _ knows _ that what he did was horrible and vile. Maleagant is wary of Morgana, he doesn’t _ like _ her, but he won’t deny that her story rang truer than Merlin’s pathetic attempt to sugarcoat _ rape_. 

“You’re not your father, Arthur,” Maleagant says. “His actions don’t shame you and it doesn’t _ matter _ how you were conceived.” 

There was a time he would’ve gained vicious satisfaction from the knowledge that the boy whose soul was deemed so pure was born from the act so vile, but he has no reason to gloat now. He _ believes _ in what he says, and more than anything he wishes for Arthur to believe in it too. 

“I know,” Arthur whispers. He swallows hard and raises his eyes to meet Maleagant’s. “I _ know _ that, but then why— Why does she hate me so much?” 

_ This _ is the question he meant to ask from the start, the question that bothers him truly. He tried to bury it under anger and denial, but he must’ve known from the start the truth of Morgana’s words. He isn’t blind nor is he stupid, it’s just easier to believe it’s all a lie than that your sister hates you for something beyond your control. 

Maleagant sighs. He rakes his fingers through his hair, trying and failing to find something to offer that won’t sound like empty platitudes. 

“_Hatred_,” he says, and the word tastes bitter on his tongue, “is something that is rarely deserved. It’s the feeling you can’t reason with, it’s dark and all-encompassing and it will swallow you whole. Don’t try to understand it, you won’t be able to.”

Arthur’s soul is too pure for this, he’s too _ good _ and won’t ever taint his heart like this. 

“I used to hate you,” Maleagant says, and he’s surprised how easy it feels to admit it. How easy it feels to _ let go _of this thought. “I used to hate you for taking the throne, for being—”

_ You_. So honorable and _ good_, everything Maleagant had no hope to be. 

This feeling seems so _ foreign _ to him now, no matter how bright it once burned. In a short span of a few months, Arthur became his _ everything_, his lover, his partner, the only person he learned to trust. 

Even now, Maleagant fears these feelings, he thinks them a _ weakness_, but try as he might he can’t deny them any longer. 

He won’t be the first one to fall, he used to say, and yet— 

“Now you don’t,” Arthur murmurs, his lips curved into a smile that seems too unsure. “You don’t hate me, do you?” 

This is supposed to be a joke, but it falls flat. It shows too _ much_, it bares the soul of the lost boy that was abandoned by his parents, the boy that more than anything wishes to be genuinely adored, and Maleagant— 

Maleagant _ does _ adore Arthur. And that’s the least complicated feeling of those that plague his heart. 

He won’t be the first one to fall, he used to say, and yet this is exactly what happened. 

Arthur may be warm and immensely kind, he may be affectionate and gentle, but he gives his heart so easily Maleagant is forever bound to be _ one of many. _

“Of course I don’t hate you,” Maleagant says, but somehow his words lack sincerity. 

He wills his expression to soften and his smile to seem genuine. 

“I don’t hate you,” he repeats. 

This time it sounds like a confession, the one Arthur won’t understand but that’s for the better. 

Maleagant leans closer to Arthur to place a kiss on his lips, sweet from honey and tart from wine. It is the flavor he wishes to savor forever, he wishes to commit it to his memory for maybe one day it’ll be all that he has. 

Arthur doesn’t hesitate to return the kiss and his embrace is gentle as always, but he is not the one who hides behind those things the words that can’t be said and the damning weakness of the heart. 

For him, it’s just the reassurance that he needs, the soothing for his pain. 

Arthur wants to be adored, but he won’t — he _ can’t _ — handle Maleagant’s love that’s just as bitter as his hatred is. It’s tainted like his heart is, intense, painful, _ worthless_. 

Maleagant breaks the kiss and swallows hard. He locks away his own pain and the doubt that refuses to leave him alone. It’s not the time to wallow in self-pity. 

With how Arthur looks at him this very moment, affectionate and trusting and soft, it’s almost easy to believe it could be enough. 

But then, it’s never enough for Maleagant. 

It never will be. 

He’ll do anything that’s in his power to make Arthur forget about his worries and the hatred he doesn’t deserve, he’ll see him return to the feast, drink and laugh and feel _ beloved _ like he is. 

He’ll make sure he knows no pain and bears no burden. 

At least one of them will get to enjoy this illusion. 

Maleagant almost doesn’t envy it’s not him. 


	15. Interlude: Morgana

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Morgana's head is a dark place, so writing this chapter was... an experience.

When Morgana was still a child, innocent and naive, she was taught the most important lesson in her life. _ Hatred _ is the only feeling you can trust, the purest and the truest of them all. 

It won’t fizzle out, it won’t betray.

It is the only thing more powerful than magic. 

She was only eight when hatred took its root in her tiny heart. She was _ eight _ when she saw a man, a hideous _ beast _ touching her mother the way that only father had any right to, and mother— Mother was _ blind _ to the truth that it wasn’t her beloved — the one she swore to be _ faithful _ to — she let into her bed. 

It was _ hatred _ that woke up the magic that lay dormant for too long. It needed but a sparkle to spread like a wildfire, to fill her with _ power _ when she had none. 

That moment, Morgana promised herself that she’ll never be helpless again. She promised herself that she’d make Uther _ pay _ for what he’d done, and her revenge would taste the sweetest. It wouldn’t give her peace, but she’d take the _ satisfaction_. 

Morgana grew up orphaned. She learned to survive by all means possible, she clung to her life with magic and sheer spite. She grew and hatred grew with her. It kept her warm when she was freezing, it comforted her when she was all alone. She _ cherished _ it, her dearest friend, she honed it like she honed her power. 

She dreamed in color of the day she’d make Uther Pendragon’s life just as miserable as hers had been. 

And then Uther died. He _ died_, and not by Morgana’s hand. Gravely injured in battle, he quickly succumbed to his wounds, leaving his kingdom beheaded and lost. It was the greatest tragedy for people of Britain who mourned their king, shed tears for him. They would’ve given _ everything _ to have him back. 

_ Morgana _ longed for that too, if only to make sure he’d suffer the fate he deserved. Not a peaceful death at the peak of glory, but pain and misery and _ ruin_. 

Yet even her magic, more powerful, more _ potent _ than the druids’, was not enough to raise the dead. 

Morgana’s sweetest hatred grew too big and her heart couldn’t hold it. It tore her apart, this wild, untamed beast, so hungry for revenge. It sought a victim so it could sink its teeth into their flesh and bleed them dry. 

Morgana felt like it was eating _ her _ inside out, hollowing her bones and drinking her blood and feasting on her organs, but then— 

Then, she caught a rumor of a young boy — of_ Arthur Pendragon_, the bastard son of the late king — who took the magical sword from the stone and gained with it the throne of Britain. Merlin supported his claim, the cowardly druid Morgana _ despised_, but he was nothing but a weapon in Uther’s hand.

Her_ hatred _ she spared for someone else. 

Oh, but it finally could _ thrive_. It spread its wings and bared its fangs, it _ found _ what it was seeking. 

The son was bound to pay tenfold for his father’s sins. 

For the first time in years, Morgana felt alive. Painstakingly, she collected every rumor and every whisper about her _ brother_, not from the desire to know what kind of person he became — there was no need for that, his fate was predetermined — but to learn where to _ strike_. 

She wanted to bury her blade deep in his soul and twist it. 

She wanted him to suffer. 

The rumors said that Arthur Pendragon was kind, that he was stubborn and foolishly brave. They said that he was a good king_ just like his father. _

Like father, like son. 

Morgana couldn’t find the target more deserving. 

So many times she thought about coming to Camelot and showing herself, but she knew that she needed to be patient. She needed to wait until Arthur had something to lose, something he would take to his heart, and then— 

Then, Morgana would rip it out with such force his ribcage would shutter.

Simple revenge could _ never _ suffice, not after all that she’d been through, and what she wanted— 

What Morgana wanted was for Arthur to feel every single drop of her agony. She wanted him to drown in it. She wanted him to be helpless and broken and _ sorry _ for his very existence. 

She wanted the world to hear her scream. 

Every night she spent on the road she watched the night sky, trying to read the future written in the stars. She’d never been good at that, the clear answers kept escaping her, and yet the whispers about _ someone _ coming into Arthur’s life seemed just too loud to ignore. 

Some days the stars would spin a tale of broken heart and betrayal, the others their song would change to something no less tragic but in a _ different _ way. 

Morgana had never studied divination, she didn’t know how to properly decipher these signs, but she knew _ life_. She knew that love is treacherous, but most importantly it could be _ used _ to reach the goal she dreamed of for so long. 

She’d never doubted the course she had to take. 

With the help of her magic, she would assume another’s visage and make Arthur believe the lie. His love would become just as blind as their mother’s was, and then— 

Then, when he’d be left with nothing but self-hatred and disgust, she would deliver another blow. She would bear him a child, a _ son _ who’d grow with poison as his heart. One day he’d take _ everything _ from his father, and till then Arthur would know only misery and fear and treacherous hope. 

_ This _ is how he’d pay for Uther’s crime. 

The years had passed. Half a decade after Arthur was crowned, the announcement of his upcoming marriage reached Morgana’s ears. 

His chosen one turned out to be a man. The very same man Morgana _ thought _ about using but in a different way. She made sure to know every one of her brother’s enemies, and there was no one more bitter than sir Maleagant of Gore. 

Rumored to be cunning and ruthless, skilled and resourceful and clever, he could’ve made a perfect ally or at the very least a useful pawn. 

Morgana couldn’t comprehend how _ he _ of all people ended up being Arthur’s destined lover, but she could use him still. 

This serpent had already slithered into Arthur’s life and his teeth were full of venom. She’d make sure that Arthur would be bitten and poisoned, just not enough to _ die_. 

For a while, the stars were silent. 

_ People _ were silent and nothing reached her from the faraway lands of Gore where strangers wouldn’t be welcomed, but as soon as the newlywed couple reached Camelot, Morgana’s carefully laid plans finally started to unfold. 

And now, _ today _ she’ll take the most important step. 

It’s already dark outside. The feast must be coming to an end and Maleagant of Gore is undoubtedly asleep and thus unable to ruin her plans. 

Morgana feels the nasty smirk stretching her lips. She thinks it’d look_ just right _on the face of Arthur’s beloved husband. 

_ Now _ she knows that the stars didn’t lie. It took her one look at the royal couple to realize that their marriage is real and they are intimate in the way only lovers could be. It was so easy to read in their looks and their touches, in _ everything _ they didn’t bother to hide. 

Perhaps Maleagant of Gore found a perverted pleasure in taking the man he once wished to defeat, perhaps he was smart enough to realize that he needed Arthur’s goodwill to keep his position. 

He was— _ is _ smart, sharp-tongued and politically savvy. He could be considered a formidable opponent to Morgana, if only— 

If only he weren’t a _ man_, too caught in his primitive fantasies and plagued by his conflicting desires. Oh, how his eyes burned with possessiveness and jealousy when Arthur dared to look at Guinevere. Morgana may have chosen her with for a different reason, hoping to remind _ Maleagant _ about the woman he once desired, but— 

It doesn’t matter. 

She’s a rope dancer, she turns every misstep into a perfect figure and easily navigates the game she’s been playing all of her life. 

She can use jealousy, she can use possessiveness, she can use conflicts and she most certainly can use _ lust_.

Morgana’s magic covers her body like a thin film. Her skin itches and disgust bubbles deep in her stomach at the thought of impersonating a lustful, primitive creature to lay with the man she _ hates _ with a passion. 

The man who is honorable and kind and _ just like his father. _

Morgana’s fingers curl into fists. The anticipation builds up in her soul, it grows and expands and fills her to the brim, ready to overflow, until— 

The sharp knock breaks the silence and then the door creaks, letting in the one she’s been waiting for. 

“Maleagant,” Arthur murmurs in greeting. His gaze is hazy and he seems a little unsteady on his feet. He’s drunk as he _ should _ be, enough that he will miss anything amiss until it’s too late. “I thought I’d find you here.”

Morgana raises her eyes at him, making sure to school her features into the contradicting mixture of sharpness and softness that’s almost too easy to imitate. 

Arthur looks at her warmly, without a hint of desire, but it _ will _ come. 

Morgana knows how to coax it out. 

“So here I am,” she spreads her arms.

She takes a step forward, then another until she’s almost uncomfortably close to her brother. 

Arthur swallows and hesitates, but doesn’t back away. He must see the dark intensity of her gaze, the one that’s never failed to lure men like a flame lures moths. Morgana is well versed in seduction and she would use every weapon at her disposal. 

Desire is something simple and fair, it’s _ powerful _ and Arthur will succumb to it. He _ does _ find his husband appealing, and the heat of passion is capable of smoothing even the sharpest angles of character. 

There is nothing there that can’t be faked with a few smiles and a little bit of magic. 

“Odd as it may sound, I found that I missed your company today,” Morgana says, the smile on her face inviting just as her words are. 

Arthur’s gaze lingers on her lips for a moment before he blinks and raises his head and lets out a sharp, awkward laugh. 

“I did too,” he says. “I _ always _ do, but I was thinking… It was a long day, why don’t we go to bed early?” 

It doesn’t sound like the suggestion Morgana’s been hoping to hear. She has no intention to use the royal chambers, it would be dangerous to drag this out for too long. 

She can’t risk it turning into something other than quick and _ impersonal_. 

“It was a long day,” she acknowledges. “But _ do _ we need a bed?” 

It’s unmistakable now what she wants, her voice is purring and suggestive, and her magic will give it just the right timbre. She takes another step forward, traces with her fingertips the bared skin of Arthur’s shoulder, pleased when she catches him shiver. 

There is still a hint of uncertainty in his eyes, but it will pass. Arthur’s just a man and he won’t refuse what’s being offered so generously. He doesn’t move away when Morgana leans in for a kiss, and after that, all his defenses will crumble. His lips part ever so slightly, and she sees— 

She sees so _ vividly _ as if it’s happening this very moment, the _ memory _ she tried to bury deep in her mind. It is the memory of her _ mother_, her head tilted back and her lips parted for an impostor, her legs spread for him. 

The bile rises in her throat, but she _ must _ see this through. 

It will be worth the pain she will finally _ share_. 

“I— wait,” Arthur exhales into her mouth. He puts his palm on Morgana’s chest to keep their distance, he _ breaks _ the kiss before it starts. 

His eyes are confused and lost as if he can’t quite understand _ why _ he stopped. 

Morgana can’t either. 

“This is—” Arthur lets out a short, mirthless laugh. “I don’t think it’s a good idea, I— I had too much to drink.” 

“Too much to get it up?” Morgana raises her eyebrows, perfectly mimicking the too-sharp teasing that should be expected from Maleagant of Gore, but—

There is still unrest in Arthur’s eyes, not suspicion, not _ quite_, but certainly not a hint of desire she needed. 

Perhaps she got it wrong, perhaps he _ didn’t _ want his husband after all. 

“I’d rather sleep it off,” Arthur says slowly. “And I think that maybe you’ve had a little too much yourself, you are not—” he shakes his head. “It doesn’t matter. Let’s just go to sleep, all right?” 

He offers her a smile, shaky but _ genuine_, his eyes turn soft and impossibly warm, and Morgana— 

Morgana is _ furious_. 

Hot boiling rage rises from the pit of her stomach, it _ spills _ too easily and she can’t control her features any longer. They _ twist _ in anger, in misery and pain and _ hatred_. 

Arthur recoils, he looks hurt, but Morgana barely pays it any attention. 

How _ dare _ he. 

How dare he resist her charm, how dare he see — not with his _ eyes_, they are still blind — that there is something wrong, that she’s not the man he wants. 

Loves. 

Maybe he _ does _ love Maleagant of Gore, maybe that soft feeling in his eyes is something more than a simple weakness of his heart, but why should it matter? 

His young, worthless love can’t be enough to break the hold of the magic. 

_ Mother’s _ love wasn’t enough. 

Arthur’s marriage is still so _ new_, Morgana’s parents had years behind them, so why— 

_ Why _ did this foolish boy see right through her? 

He’s too soft-hearted and naive and unobservant, he builds his castles from sand and believes they can defend him. 

He is the son of Uther, the despicable man who thought his lust gave him the right to ruin other people’s lives. 

He is the son of Igraine, the woman who blindly gave herself to a liar. 

How can the voice of his heart ring so strong and so true? 

“There is nothing _ right _ about this, Arthur,” Morgana spits, her voice full of poison.

It doesn’t matter what comes next. 

She’s a rope dancer, she will _ always _ keep her balance. 

“Maleagant, I don't understand. Have I done something wrong?” 

There is pain written on Arthur’s face, he’s hurt but not _ enough_. It won’t _ last_, because Morgana can’t keep this pretense forever. She can’t finish what she started and won’t have her second chance, but, oh— 

Oh, if Arthur loves his husband so much, she will use this gladly.

She won’t give up her fight and one way or another she will _ win_. 

Morgana notices the sound of footsteps before Arthur does. She _ knows _ who they belong to, it should be impossible, but everything keeps falling apart. 

Everything keeps falling apart, but she’s exceptionally _ good _ at mending the things that were broken. Her scars are her reminder and her defense. 

Morgana meets Arthur’s eyes and curves her lips into a vicious smile. 

She knows _ exactly _ what to do.


	16. Seduction

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> shockingly enough, the quarantine doesn't make me any more productive ._.

Blood rushes to Arthur’s head. His ears are ringing and his vision is blurring from the utter _ confusion _ he feels. The look in Maleagant’s eyes is cold and unforgiving, it’s full of _ hatred _ that he promised he no longer felt. 

He _ promised_. 

Arthur stands still, unable to move even if he wants to. He _ needs _ to put some distance between them and the thought of it is _ painful_. 

He never thought he’d feel this way. 

He feels lost. He feels nauseous and not because of the wine that clouds his mind. 

Where did he misstep? What did he do to deserve a reaction like this?

Things aren’t always easy between them, he knows that too many times he hurt Maleagant without meaning to, but what went wrong _ this _ time? 

It couldn’t be his reluctance to take things further, could it? Maleagant never seemed to value their intimacy that much despite enjoying it plenty, but maybe it’s the refusal itself that wounded his pride. Arthur doesn’t even know _ why _ he refused, but there was something— 

There was something _ wrong _ in the curve of Maleagant’s smile, something foreign and discomfiting in the depths of his eyes, something missing in his touch. 

The feeling of dread pools low in Arthur’s stomach as Maleagant’s features twist into a hideous grimace, hateful and angry in the way it hasn’t been for months. 

It has _ never _ been so, and he— 

He hears the footsteps, light and swift, the sound of them so achingly familiar he could’ve sworn they belong to Maleagant, but that _ can’t _ be so. 

Can it? 

Maleagant’s grip on his wrist is tight and bruising. He pulls Arthur close until their bodies collide, his mouth feels demanding and hot upon his lips. Arthur barely has time to process what is happening, but he feels— 

He feels his husband’s figure shift and change, almost _ melt _ under his touch. The lips that press to Arthur’s feel fuller, the body in his arms much smaller, there is a pair of _ breasts _ pressed to his chest. 

Arthur is kissing a _ woman _ . He is being _ kissed_, shock-still and unable to move, caught by the unfamiliar brown eyes that look at him with familiar derision, and then— 

The door opens with a creak, loud and startling in the silence of the room, and it’s enough to shake Arthur from his stupor. 

He finally moves away, breaking the embrace that feels so awfully, impossibly _ wrong_. 

For a moment that feels like an eternity, he stares at the face of Guinevere, beautiful and gentle, the very same woman whom Maleagant once desired. 

_ Maleagant_. 

“Well.” It is _ his _ voice that Arthur hears. “I have to say, that was quite a show.” 

Arthur turns around so quickly his vision blurs, he looks at his husband standing in the doorway, and there is not a hint of doubt in his soul that this is truly _ him_. The anger and raw hurt in his eyes are painful to see, but they are _ his_. 

Arthur opens his mouth to say something. He wishes to explain that this is nothing but a horrible mistake, but how can he find the right words? He’s tongue-tied and confused and he doesn’t know what to _ do_. 

Maleagant’s mouth pulls into a bitter grimace. 

“I don’t suppose it needs spectators,” he says, “but please, don’t stop on my account. I’m already leaving.” 

“Maleagant!” Arthur calls. “Please, I can—” 

Maleagant doesn’t listen. He _ flees _ the room, his steps so swift he’s almost running, but Arthur will chase him if he needs to. He had to right this wrong, he has to make sure that this horrible misunderstanding doesn’t ruin everything they’ve built so far, he— 

Strong fingers wrap around his wrist, their grip is tight and bruising, and Arthur knows even before he turns that they don’t belong to Guinevere, just like they didn’t belong to Maleagant. 

_ This _ time the monster shows its true face. 

Morgana’s eyes are feverishly bright and gleeful, the vicious smile on her lips is nauseating because Arthur still remembers it twisting the mouth of the man he loves. 

“Let go of me,” he exhales. “Let _ go _ of me, you witch!” 

The strength returns to his voice, the righteous anger roars in his soul, so powerful he finds it hard to breathe. He tugs his hand back with such a force it almost sends Morgana tumbling, but she looks unfazed, still hateful and smug and _ triumphant_.

“Run after him if that’s what you want,” she mocks. “Tell him that it wasn’t what it seemed, and maybe he’ll believe you! Enjoy then this reprieve, for _ trust _ me, brother dearest, it will not last.” 

Arthur grits his teeth. He has no time for Morgana’s threats, no time to think about other traps she may have prepared for him, he needs to hurry and _ find Maleagant. _

He won’t let _ anything _ destroy the most precious thing in his life.

“I’ll deal with you later,” he spits out. 

The thought of leaving her here, unpunished and free, makes his stomach churn and his fists curl tightly in impotent, helpless anger, but he doesn’t have much of a choice. 

He exits the room. The chill air of the hall burns his throat as he breathes in too deeply in the hope of fighting the panic that threatens to overwhelm him. Maleagant is _ gone_, and Arthur doesn’t know where to find him. 

What he _ does _ know is that he can’t simply leave it like this. 

He can’t leave Maleagant believing that this awful image he saw was real, he can’t leave him miserable and hurting and torturing himself with doubt. 

His pride is fragile, his _ heart _ is too, and Arthur _ knows _ it can’t be unaffected. He believes that by now the love he feels for Maleagant isn’t one-sided, and he has to believe that it’s strong enough to survive Morgana’s vengeance. 

The mere thought of her still makes Arthur’s skin crawl. He still feels the ghost of her touch, unwanted and _ wrong_, and how much _ further _ did she intend to take it? 

Did she want him to suffer the very same fate their mother had suffered? Did she want him to feel the full weight of disgust and self-loathing and hatred? 

Was it worth taking the place of the monster in her own story, becoming someone just as vile as Uther was? Arthur can’t — _ won’t _ — blame her for despising him, but how can _ this _ make it better? 

He exhales through his nose. His fists are clenched so tightly his fingers feel numb, he’s still standing in the middle of the hall, frozen and numb and desperately trying not to _ fall apart. _

Arthur never thought himself to be a hateful person, he never wished ill upon anyone, but he _ wants _ Morgana’s death. He wants her out of his life, he wants to see her burning on the stake because then he’ll _ know _ she won’t be able to hurt what’s his. 

Arthur fears her. 

He fears the monster he sees in her eyes, merciless and hungry for vengeance. She is his sister, his _ family_, and maybe he too has darkness deep inside of his heart, because no blood ties are strong enough to soften his resolve. 

Not long ago, Merlin tried to convince him that his and Morgana’s fates are forever intertwined. He pleaded with Arthur not to succumb to the hatred she stirs in him, but— 

He already did. He _ tainted _ his soul, but he can’t find it in himself to truly regret it. If that’s the price for protecting everything he holds dear — his kingdom, his people, his _ husband _ — he’ll pay it gladly. 

More than anything, Arthur longs to have Malegant beside him. He needs him to soothe his worries and grant him forgiveness for the things he didn’t do. He needs to _ see _ him, his eyes that may be full of hurt and anger, but void of _ hatred _ that’s too painful to bear. 

Arthur feels his rage finally subside. It leaves him empty and aching, confused, miserable and lost, but— 

At least his head feels clearer now, at least he _ knows _ what he should do next. 

If Arthur knows anything about Maleagant, there is only one place he can be now. 

The way to the battlements doesn’t take long, although it feels like too much precious time is being wasted. It feels like Arthur can be _ late_, that every moment counts before it is no longer possible to mend what’s broken. 

The fear in Arthur’s soul is restless and alive, his soul _ aches _ and his body trembles. 

He prays to all the Gods he knows that Maleagant _ is _ up on the walls, that this time like the countless times before he chose this place to clear his mind. 

If Arthur is mistaken, he’ll have to return to their chambers and _ wait_, hoping his husband will come and fearing he won’t, and— 

The late summer’s air fills his lungs, fragrant and fresh, as he takes the last steps up the stairs. The smell of rain and wet stone feels almost soothing, the night is warm and silent and the sky is clear. 

Arthur slows down his steps and looks around, seeking another’s presence, and Gods must be merciful to him this time because he _ isn’t _ alone here. 

Maleagant stands on the south-east wall, completely still, his posture rigid and tense. He doesn’t bother to acknowledge Arthur’s arrival, although there is no doubt that he heard him. 

Swallowing a lump in his throat, Arthur takes a few cautious steps forward. 

The wind plays with the mess of Maleagant’s curls and the fabric of his clothes, too thin to ward off the chill of late summer’s night. He must be _ cold_, but Arthur knows the faint trembling he sees has nothing to do with it. 

“Maleagant,” he calls softly. 

He wants to touch him, so _ much_, but he feels like he lost that right and needs to regain it first. 

After a moment that feels too long, Maleagant slowly turns around. His back is straight and his fingers are curled into loose fists, his jaw is set and his eyes are alight with anger and hurt, and yet—

Yet, it looks like the storm _ calms _ if just a little the moment he meets Arthur’s gaze. 

“Arthur,” he says. “Haven’t you been busy?” 

“It’s not what it looked like,” Arthur blurts, and it’s the _ dumbest _ excuse he could’ve come up with even if it _ is _ the truth. 

He _ knows _ it’s almost impossible to believe, but isn’t it even more absurd to think he would be kissing lady Guinevere in his husband’s private study? 

Arthur made a vow to remain faithful to Maleagant, and he never, not even for the briefest of moments, felt the temptation to break it. 

Did he ever make it seem different? 

Maleagant simply _ looks _ at him, his gaze calculating and heavy, and then a faint smirk touches his lips.

“It looked like you were kissing lady Guinevere,” he says. “Or, rather, like she was kissing _ you_, not that it matters all that much. Now, feel free to enlighten me on what it _ truly _ was.” 

Arthur licks his dry lips and swallows. He tries to find the right thing to say, but there is only one word that echoes in his mind, one answer to everything that went wrong. 

“_ Morgana _.”

The feverish, vicious mirth sparkles in Maleagant’s eyes, and the smirk on his lips grows wider. _ Uglier_. 

“Well, that makes it _ so _ much better,” Maleagant drawls. “It’s not my place to judge you for dallying with your own sister, except— No, that’s right. It _ is _ my place.” 

His voice sounds strained, like something in him is ready to snap, and Arthur knows that he can’t let it happen, but he’s never felt so utterly _ lost_. 

“I—” he swallows again. “I didn’t— I swear I’d never—” 

Maleagant’s smirk disappears. 

“I know,” he says curtly. “I’m not a _ fool_, Arthur, no matter what your darling sister might think. I happened to see Guinevere in the gardens not long before I saw you, and I _ also _ noticed that you most definitely had no say in what was going on.” 

Arthur exhales, but the tension doesn’t dissipate. He can’t allow himself to feel relieved before he makes sure that Morgana _ failed _ to tear them apart. 

_ This time_, whispers the poisonous, honeyed voice at the back of his mind. 

“For all it’s worth,” Maleagant continues, and though his tone is lighter it still sounds strained, “I believe that I satisfy you plenty for you to refrain from hopping into bed with the first dame that catches your fancy. After all, it was _ you _ who insisted we keep our vows.” 

It sounds like a _ joke_, vicious and dark. 

It sounds like a feeble attempt to reassure himself, but _ surely _ Arthur is mistaken. 

He utters a laugh, short and not particularly convincing. 

“Of course I wouldn’t do something like that,” he shakes his head. “You know me.” 

For a long moment Maleagant simply _ looks _ at him, his gaze intense and his expression closed off, but then he sighs, visibly letting go of the lingering tension. 

His mouth pulls into a tired, unhappy frown. 

“I do,” he says and his words ring with conviction. “I do, all too well.” 

Arthur nods. He dares to take a few steps closer to Maleagant, but touching him still feels forbidden. 

“She wore your face at first,” he says. “Morgana, she wanted to— I think she wanted to _ seduce _ me, to make me sleep with her, and I don’t even know— I don’t have the faintest idea _ why _ she would do that, whether she wanted to recreate this nightmare she witnessed or—” 

He shakes his head. He still feels like the ground under his feet is crumbling, like he’s barely keeping his balance, and it won’t — _ can’t _ — last. 

“There is no doubt she had a plan to get rid of me for a while,” Maleagant says slowly, his gaze troubled and thoughtful. “That servant of hers, Leia, she seemed to be particularly determined to make me drunk. The only reason I’m _ not _ is that I had a mild headache earlier this evening and—” 

“Are you alright?” Arthur interrupts, unable to stop himself. 

Maleagant’s headaches still trouble him, even if he knows by now that they pose no real danger to his health. It still _ hurts _to see him suffer. It hurts to feel utterly helpless to soothe his pain. 

“I am.” Maleagant’s eyes soften. “Exhaustion must have caught up on me, and while it’s not exactly pleasant… Rest assured, I’ve been much worse.”

His lips twitch in a weak attempt to fold into a smile, and— 

Gods, Arthur longs — he _ needs _ — to see it, his real smile, sincere and beautiful, the very same smile he fell in love with long before he realized the depth of his feelings. He needs to erase the _ wrongness _ of it in his memory, just like he needs to erase Morgana’s touch — her _ claim _ — that still lingers on his skin. 

Arthur doesn’t belong to her. His soul, his body aren’t _ hers _ to take. 

Gathering all the courage he has left, Arthur reaches to take Maleagant’s hand and gently squeezes his fingers, relieved beyond measure when he doesn’t recoil. 

When their eyes meet, Arthur doesn’t try to hide how scared and uncertain he feels. 

He never hid anything from his husband and won’t start now. 

“Are _ we _ alright?” he asks quietly. 

Maleagant’s gaze wavers. He looks at the ground and then raises his eyes again, he seems just as lost as Arthur feels, and it’s so _ rare _ to see him like this, vulnerable and open. He’s not an enigma, he’s never been, but too often he masks the deepest of his hurts with derision and anger, with cruel sharpness of words and well-aimed jabs. 

Not _ this _ time. 

Arthur’s thumb slides across Maleagant’s palm, rigid and cold, and somehow, impossibly, this simple caress seems to be enough to break the tension. 

Maleagant sighs. Intertwining their fingers, he takes a step closer and presses his forehead to Arthur’s shoulder. 

“We are,” he whispers. 

Arthur puts his free hand at the back of Maleagant’s head, threads his fingers through his silky-smooth hair, then presses his cheek to his temple. 

The familiar, comforting warmth settles in the pit of his stomach, and it may not be enough to chase away all of his worries, but they won’t linger. 

They _ are _ alright. They will be. 

This trial may be one of many on their path, but Arthur needs to believe they are strong enough to get through them all. 

He can’t let Morgana — can’t let_ anyone _ — ruin the best thing in his life. 

“I wish there was something I could do,” Arthur murmurs. “I wish I could simply _ kill _ her if that’s what it takes to never see her again. Merlin says that our fates are intertwined, but why should I _ care_? I—” 

Maleagant exhales. Reluctantly, he takes a step back and raises his eyes to meet Arthur’s. 

“Much as it pains me to agree with the druid,” he says, “he’s not exactly _ wrong _ . You _ should _ care.” 

He grits his teeth, displeased and angered. 

“I _ hate _ that she got admitted to the court, that Merlin simply _ let her in _ when we could’ve gotten rid of her there and then,” he pauses. “But that is what happened. By now, all Britain knows she’s your sister, you can’t simply _ kill _ her without tarnishing your name. Not until she sins worth such a punishment.” 

Maleagnat’s lips quirk, folding into a bitter smile. He raises his hand to stroke Arthur’s cheek, his fingers cool and achingly gentle. 

“You’re just,” he says. “You’re _ kind_. Stay this way.” 

Arthur closes his eyes for a moment. He covers Maleagant’s hand with his own, takes it to his lips to place a short kiss to the center of his palm. It’s not _ enough_, not yet, but he needs every small gesture to rewrite in his memories the intimacy that’s _ theirs _ and no one else’s. 

“I have no kindness to spare her,” he says. “I don’t want to be _ just _ when the price for that is so high.” 

Maleagant shakes his head. 

“You don’t _ know _ the price,” he says, stepping back. “You’re not above the law, Arthur. You _ can’t _ be. You have no right to execute her, and maybe you could find an excuse to exile her, but— If you’re willing to listen to my advice, here is one: keep your friends close, but your enemies closer.” 

The corner of Arthur’s mouth twitches. 

“Is this the wisdom of yet another of your greek philosophers?” 

“No,” Maleagant answers dryly. “It’s common sense. Morgana will not give up her vengeance, and_ trust me_, you don’t want to have her out of your sight.” 

Much as Arthur loathes to admit it, it _ does _ make sense, much more so than Merlin’s vague claims of their connection. Deep in his heart, he already knew there is nothing he can do with Morgana, not _ now_. Not maybe until it’s too late, and the thought is discomfiting and _ scary_. 

Maleagant is right. He’s _ always _ right, he knows politics and law and _ people_, and maybe Arthur still disagrees with him in some matters, but not this time. 

This time he simply _ can’t_, this time no amount of stubbornness and recklessness will let him win the fight. 

“I _ hated _ what I saw,” Maleagant says after a moment of silence. “I knew from the start that it wasn’t what it seemed, but I _ hated _ it all the same. Morgana is _ good _ at striking people where it hurts, she’s clever and she’s resourceful. Don’t let her out of your sight, and— please, be careful.” 

Arthur smiles. Perhaps it’s not the most appropriate response, but the one he can’t control. This is what tells him that Morgana didn’t win.

_ This _ is why he believes that whatever doubts he ever had about them are completely and utterly unfounded. 

Maleagant _ cares_. He cares passionately and deeply, for _ Arthur _ and not simply for what he gains with him by his side. 

Arthur still remembers the conversation amongst his knights he overheard by chance a few months ago, the words that disturbed him greatly. It was a simple off-handed remark, but it made Arthur think— 

That day, Urien said that Maleagant might be incapable of feeling love, that he’s too arrogant and self-centered to ever care about anyone but himself, that he might favor Arthur _ now_, but it will last only as long as it benefits him. 

And the most painful thing about this was that there was _ truth _ in that, just seeds of it, but perfectly enough to make him doubt. 

Arthur knows — he knew from the very beginning — that Maleagant is far from perfect. He’s easily hurt, he _ cherishes _ his wounds, he convinced himself that _ he _ is the only person who would ever genuinely care about him. 

It made him distrustful and self-centered, but— 

It’s not nearly the same as being unable to love. Perhaps Maleagant will always think about himself first, but Arthur does have a place in his husband’s heart. 

Maleagant _ loves _ him. He can be thoughtful and gentle and fiercely protective, he’s always there for Arthur when he truly needs him. 

Arthur just hopes he can offer the same. 

He knows his love isn’t blind. It’s simply— 

It’s all-encompassing, strong enough to fight everything that could go wrong, gentle enough to forgive a lot of mistakes. 

Even without Morgana’s poisonous presence, they would’ve had their fights, they are too different and both too stubborn to avoid it, but as long as they are together, as long as they _ love _ each other, genuinely and fiercely, _ nothing _ can tear them apart. 

Arthur has to — he _ does _ — believe it. 

“Did you fall asleep?” Maleagant asks. 

Arthur raises his eyes. 

Maleagant watches him, his head slightly tilted to the side, a small smile playing on his lips. His eyes crinkle up ever so slightly, two faint straight lines appear in their corners, and Arthur is absolutely _ enchanted _ by them. 

He wants to see them go deeper as the years pass. 

“Arthur?”

Arthur blinks. Belatedly, he realizes he must’ve kept silent for too long, caught in the mess of his thoughts. 

He shakes his head and utters a short, embarrassed laugh.

“Sorry,” he says. “I just— Nevermind. I _ will _ be careful, but promise me that you will be too. I—” 

He pauses. There is something he meant to tell Maleagant earlier this day, the very reason he sought him out, and this is not the best time to talk about this, but waiting for tomorrow might be a bigger mistake. 

“I will be leaving in less than a week,” he says. “I finally got the last of the kings’ approval. The plans for the campaign are already set, and you know as well as I do that we can’t afford to drag this out.” 

They’ve lost enough time trying to gather their allies’ forces for another strike. Their first major battle was only the beginning, a significant victory to boost people’s morale but hardly more than that. _ This _ time, if they don’t dally, they stand a chance to push the invaders back for long enough to have time to lick their wounds and actually _ feel _ the peace. 

Maleagant frowns. Arthur knows that he isn’t happy about having to stay in Camelot, he voiced his displeasure not once, but they both know it’s the best decision. 

Arthur would like nothing more than to fight alongside his husband, but now more than ever they need the ruler’s presence in the capital. 

They can’t risk their kingdom falling apart when they struggle to keep it safe. 

“We still have some time left,” he says, keeping his voice soft. “And I don’t want to waste it on disagreements, and then—” 

“Then, we can’t have Morgana thinking she might’ve succeeded,” Maleagant nods. 

This isn’t what Arthur meant to say, but he doesn’t argue. 

He casts a brief look at the skies. The wind picked up and the moon disappeared behind the thick heavy clouds. It’s getting colder, and while the chill doesn’t bother _ Arthur_, he can’t help but notice Maleagant shivering and scrunching his nose in displeasure. 

“Maybe we should return to our chambers,” Arthur says. “I know you love this place, but I’d hate to see you sick in our last few days together.” 

Maleagant smirks. Stepping closer, he wraps his arms around Arthur’s middle, his icy-cold fingers teasing the bare strip of skin above the waistband of the pants. 

Arthur squirms and huffs, but he’s far from being annoyed, not when he earns him Maleagant’s soft chuckle. 

“I’m sure you’ll find a way to keep me warm,” Maleagant murmurs. 

There is nothing particularly seductive about it, and Arthur is— relieved. Something in him is still wary about being _ too _ intimate, crossing the line between simply enjoying each other’s presence and the things of more carnal nature. 

What they have is so much more than _ lust_, and Arthur needs a reminder of that too.

He finally returns the embrace, pulls Maleagant even closer, allowing himself to fully enjoy this moment. Later, when they return to their chambers, Arthur will pour them both some herbal wine, he’ll pester Maleagant to tell him one of his stories, he’ll fall asleep to the sound of his voice, warm and safe in his arms. 

This is something Morgana is _ powerless _ to fake. 

“Don’t ever doubt it,” Arthur says. 

He will keep Maleagant just as warm and safe as he makes Arthur feel, just loved and _ happy_. 

And everything will be well. 


	17. The Breaking Point

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Annie is not okay

Maleagant pinches the bridge of his nose, hoping to ward off a headache and focus on the issue, but of course it doesn’t help. The words and numbers keep blurring before his eyes. He spent the whole night mulling them over and yet he doesn’t feel any closer to finding the solution.

No matter what he tries, he simply _ can’t _ make ends meet. 

Their campaign against the barbarians has been successful so far, much more so than they could’ve predicted. 

The Saxons had long since occupied Cantia, the lands that have never been prosperous or rich or _ important _ — until they were lost. The towns were pillaged and burned, the people were killed, and then the barbarians set their _ camps _ there. The seas no longer protected Britain, but now— 

Now, if the reports are to be believed, they have a chance to gain their advantage back. With the united army of all kingdoms of Britain, under Arthur’s brilliant command, they have just enough power to finally _ vanquish _ the invaders. 

Without their stronghold on the isles, the Saxons are unlikely to attempt another invasion any time soon, and _ this _ is what promises Britain true peace. They _ need _ their chance to rebuild their towns and fortify their defenses. 

They need to prevent the devastation like this from happening ever again. 

This isn’t impossible. The victory is _ theirs_, almost, they need just the last push— 

And that is where the problem lies. Their campaign has been successful, true, but it also took too long. Months, instead of weeks. Falling back is not an option now, not when they are so close to reaching their goals, but continuing on requires _ resources _ they sorely lack. The armies need food, they need medicine and weapons, and while the routes are clear, the capital has next to nothing to send their way. 

No matter how many times Maleagant thinks this over, he simply _ cannot _ find the answer that won’t stir the unrest. 

Camelot has no money to spare and raising the taxes is too likely to cause the riots amongst people. Right now they are _ safe _ behind the walls, they can’t care about peace in some distant future when they are faced with the prospect of starving _ today_.

They’ll see it as their rulers’ greed, their reluctance to pay the army out of their own pockets, no matter that they are just as empty. 

Maleagant knows that if he chooses this way, people will suffer. 

He knows that they’ll blame _ him _ for that, and rightfully so. It would be _ his _ decision and his alone, while Arthur would be basking in the glory of another grand victory. 

There is no doubt in Maleagant’s mind that Arthur would take his side, that he would share the blame and willingly take the blow, but it would only _ graze _ him. It would be _ Maleagant _ who’d take the role of the hated ruler, the tyrant easy to blame for everything that goes wrong. 

People, he thinks, need someone to hate just as much as they need someone to love. 

He _ does _ have another option. It might be trickier by far, but Maleagant is more inclined to choose it. He may be willing to put the needs of many above the suffering of the few, but he doesn’t _ want _ his people to suffer when they barely had enough time to recover from the tragedies of the past. 

The truth is that Britain remains disjoined. They have the High-King above them all, but the kings still have their own riches they aren’t inclined to share, even for the good of their own people. Maleagant knows this all too well. His own kingdom is far wealthier than Camelot was even in its prime. His father, King Bagdemagus, makes sure to keep his treasury full, but will he be willing to halve it when no vows compel him to do that? 

He _ might _be, Maleagant muses. Gore would surely benefit from gaining Camelot’s favor, and even if King Bagdemagus fails to see it that way, Maleagant can surely use his apparent desire to mend their shaky relationship. 

It’s something. It’s a _ start_, but even his father’s generosity won’t cover half of what they need. Maleagant knows that he will have to persuade each and every one of the kings to sponsor the campaign from their own coffers, and while they must understand the necessity of it far better than the common folk, it doesn’t guarantee their _ agreement_. 

Maleagant can’t simply _ order _ them. They honored their vows when they send their soldiers to war, and everything else depends on their goodwill. 

Maleagant huffs. 

Their goodwill. Their rationality. Their charity. He doubts that most of them possess enough of that to be of any help, and that means he’ll have to _ beg_. He’ll have to grovel, bargain, _ humiliate _ himself to win their favor. 

There is no way he solves this problem without marring his already atrocious reputation, and _ this _ is what sets him on edge. _ This _ is what makes him endlessly frustrated.

He can’t stand being helpless and hated and utterly _ alone _ in all of this. 

The sharp knock on the door startles him. 

Maleagant squares his shoulders, wincing from the pain that shoots through his neck. 

“Come in,” he says curtly. 

He isn’t terribly surprised to see Drest entering the room, he is one of the few who would dare to disturb Maleagant in a moment like this. He’s one of the few who stayed in Camelot instead of joining the campaign, and Maleagant can’t help but find it awfully _ discomfiting_. 

Sometimes he feels trapped in his own castle, surrounded by his enemy’s forces, backed into a corner. 

It is _ ridiculous_, he knows that. No one is planning to overthrow him while Arthur is away. People might not like him very much, but they are _ loyal_, and yet— 

“Sire,” Drest says. His face is grim, his eyes are serious and void of his usual acerbic humor. “I received another missive from the borders. We’ve been assured they have enough necessities to last until the end of the month, but the sooner we send the supplies the fewer lives we lose. Have you—” he clears his throat. “Have you reached your decision?” 

Maleagant presses his lips into a thin line and drums his fingers on the table. 

“Not yet,” he admits. “But soon enough I will. And I need you to find the fastest messengers to deliver my letters. _ Today_. Am I clear?”

Maleagant knows that he has to at least _ try _ to persuade the kings, his pride be damned. He isn’t optimistic enough to believe that all of them will agree to aid the cause, but he’s also quite sure he won’t get the outright refusal. 

Worst case scenario, he’d still have to raise the taxes, but not nearly enough for them to be unbearable to people. 

Of course, _ then _ he’d be both hated by people and humiliated before the kings, but that’s the price he’s bound to pay for Arthur’s triumph. 

“Yes, Sire.” Drest nods sharply. He pauses for a moment, then adds much quieter and almost hesitantly: “Did you get any sleep?” 

Maleagant bristles. He doesn’t _ need _ Drest’s care. It’s not his right to question his superior’s decisions, no matter how ill-conceived they may be. 

_ Sleep _ is the luxury he simply cannot afford. 

“I will,” he says dryly, “when my duty is done.” 

Will it ever be? 

It’s always _ something_, the lack of resources or nobles’ petty squabbles or peasant’s meaningless complaints. Maleagant is sick of people focusing on everything except for what truly matters, and it’s certainly the worst time to pester him about their issue with an heir. 

He wishes Arthur were here. 

He wishes Arthur were _ by his side_, dealing with his own people instead of risking his life for them, basking in the glory of countless victories, staying _ beloved _ while Maleagant gets his hands dirty. 

The last time Arthur went to war, it didn’t feel this unbearable. It wasn’t by any means easy, but Maleagant felt— useful, efficient. Not like a_ good wife _ staying at home to guard her husband’s throne, placating people with pretty smiles and empty promises. 

Gods, how he _ hates _ this. 

“If everything goes well, King Arthur will return Camelot before the first frost,” Drest says, perhaps considering his words to be a comfort. 

_ Perhaps _ he’s counting days until his _ true _ king is back. 

No matter how Maleagant loathes to admit it, Arthur _ does _ deserve this title. 

He’s a good ruler, strong and just and kind. He's a decent strategist and talented tactician, he’s brilliant with a sword and will become unstoppable once he gains enough experience. His formal education might be lacking, but his intuition is almost good enough to compensate for the lack of knowledge. 

Even his stubbornness makes him stronger, willful enough not to submit to _ anyone_, be that the kings or his own husband. 

They had enough disagreements for Maleagant to learn that if Arthur is set on something, _ nothing _ is capable of changing his mind. 

They had enough disagreements, and never — not even _ once _ — Maleagant was able to have it his way. Arthur stood his ground firmly and never backed off, he soothed all of the hurts with sweet words and even sweeter kisses, and Maleagant— 

Maleagant, who’s always prided himself in never giving up, was doing just that, time and time again, so unbearably _ weak _ before the man he foolishly fell in love with.

Perhaps the worst thing of all, the most bitter truth to accept, is that every time they fought Arthur wasn’t _ wrong _ in refusing to listen to Maleagant. Perhaps the ways he was choosing weren’t the _ only _ right ones, but they were right all the same. 

He doesn’t _ need _ advisors to be good.

He doesn’t need Maleagant. 

“Sire,” Drest calls.

His voice pulls Maleagant out of his thoughts, almost violently so, an unpleasant reminder that he’s still not alone in his study. 

What Drest is even _ doing _ here when he already got his orders? 

“Go away,” Maleagant grits his teeth. “Go!” 

He hears his own voice break, it sounds hysterical and _ ugly_, it echoes through his mind mixing with the pounding of blood in his ears. 

Drest doesn’t try to argue. He knows better not to. He exits the room silently and swiftly, but his absence does _ nothing _ to help. Maleagant still feels trapped and suffocated and— 

He rakes his fingers through his hair, then stands abruptly, sending the half-finished letters flying from the table. He doesn’t bother to catch them, those useless reminders of his _ impotency_. He has no use for them, he needs— 

He needs _ air_. 

The doors slam behind him with too much force as he flees his own study. The sound almost _ startles _ him, his nerves pulled tight like a string ready to snap. Maleagant doesn’t stop. He crosses the hall without pausing his steps for a moment, but he has no idea _ where _ he is going.

His mind longs for quiet and comfort that’s nowhere to be found. His soul aches for Arthur’s gentle touches, his warm embraces, his kind words. They would’ve silenced the worst of Maleagant’s worries, they would’ve made him forget his unhappiness, his pain and dissatisfaction, and darkness that poisons his heart. 

It’s for the best, Maleagant reminds himself. 

It’s best to be _ free _ from his delusions. 

“What’s the rush, _ Your Majesty _?”

The cloyingly sweet voice makes Maleagant pull up short. 

It belongs to _ Morgana _ , the witch who made herself all too comfortable in her brother’s castle. Maleagant never allowed himself to forget about the threat she poses, and yet he foolishly believed he could afford to focus on his _ other _ issues. 

“It’s quite fortunate that our paths crossed,” Morgana steps out of the secluded alcove where she was undoubtedly waiting for her prey. “I think it’s high time we have a _ talk _.” 

Maleagant barely manages to stifle the urge to take a step back. There is something _ predatory _ in Morgana’s gaze, in her slow and poisonous smile. She smells his weakness, she knows his doubts, she’s willing to drink _ his _ misery when Arthur is out of her reach. 

She’s been doing just that those past few weeks, _ taunting _ him with fleeting but painful remarks. Maleagant knows her games, he recognizes her tactics, but they still _ work_. 

The reason why Morgana is so scarily efficient, so poisonous and deadly, is because she’s smart enough to use the _ truth _ as her weapon. 

“I don’t have time for you.” Maleagant keeps his voice flat. 

“_Find _ some,” Morgana says. “I don’t need much.” 

They are alone in this part of the castle, they won’t be heard, and Maleagant wishes he could just use this opportunity to strike her down, to _ kill _ her there and then, putting an end to at least one of his problems, but— 

He doesn’t know the full extent of her power. He can’t risk it. 

“Good,” Morgana smiles, taking his silence as an agreement. 

Maleagant doesn’t know why he voices no protest, why he doesn’t just _ leave_. Perhaps he’s already under the witch’s charm, or perhaps he’s just a glutton for punishment. 

“I couldn’t help but notice,” Morgana continues, “your mood has soured lately.” 

There is a pity in her voice, grotesquely insincere, and this is what _ irks _ Maleagant to no end. She _ plays _ with people, she pretends to care but doesn’t bother to put enough effort to sound convincing. 

_ Some _ may believe her, but even Arthur isn’t that naive to think there is a trace of sisterly affection in her heart. 

“These are uneasy times,” Maleagant forces himself to speak. He sounds almost _ polite_, like there is no anger and no desperation burning in his soul. “Britain’s fate troubles me greatly, and I have plenty of issues to deal with.” 

“Yes,” Morgana’s smile stretches. “That’s true. You _ do _ work hard for the good of your kingdom. Too bad people refuse to appreciate it.” 

Maleagant’s fingers curl into fists. 

This provocation is so ridiculously crude it shouldn’t work, and yet it _ does_. 

It _ does_, because Morgana is simply voicing what’s been on his mind for a while now. 

“It’s no surprise,” she presses on. “They _ did _ choose Arthur as their true king. Of course, he’s nothing but a bastard, but they don’t seem to care about it all that much, now do they?” 

Of course they don’t. People love Arthur because he’s s a good king, a good man. He’s not _ perfect _ by any means, but he’s still the closest to that unreachable ideal than anyone Maleagant has ever met. 

People aren’t _ wrong _ to ignore the circumstances of Arthur’s birth, they shouldn’t matter, but— 

What hurts is that no one ever extended the same courtesy to Maleagant, no one ever chose to forgive _ him _ for the sins he didn’t commit. 

“Must be awful,” the pity is back in Morgana’s voice, but when Maleagant meets her eyes, they are full of vicious glee, “to be stuck in a role of a wife. A _ bad _ one at that.”

A wife. A _ spouse _ with a hefty dowry, but that’s all he’s good for. 

Maleagant’s reputation is atrocious, he’s hated amongst nobles and peasants alike and he certainly can’t give Arthur an heir. He _ trapped _ them both in this union, cutting off the prospects of far better marriages. 

He’s always known that. 

It doesn’t matter that sometimes, for the briefest of moments he manages to convince himself that things are _ good_, deep in his heart Maleagant recognizes the simple yet painful truth. Arthur is better off without him. He’s better off with someone like _ Guinevere_, gentle and beautiful and _ proper_. 

Arthur may genuinely like him, but— 

“It’s easy to believe that Arthur cares for you,” Morgana taunts as if she’s reading his thoughts. 

Maybe she does. Maybe she’s powerful enough to do that. 

Maleagant knows that he has to shut her up or simply stop listening, but he can’t do a thing. He’s paralyzed and magic can’t be blamed for that. 

“He does,” he finds himself saying, and it sounds so _ pathetic_. 

Why does he think he has to defend his marriage, _ Arthur’s feelings _ before the witch? 

“Perhaps,” Morgana’s eyes look feverishly bright. “My darling brother, he has a big heart. He wouldn't wish to hurt _ anyone_, no matter how much it _ inconveniences _ him. He’s soft-hearted and naive, but soon enough he will admit what others already see.”

“And what that might be?”

“That you’re nothing but a _ hindrance _ to him,” Morgana spits, and all traces of her false sympathy are suddenly gone, replaced by startlingly genuine ire. “You are a _ leech_. You hold so desperately onto the things that will _ never _ belong to you.” 

Maleagant trembles. His body is rigid and still, but something deep inside of him is _ trembling_. He doesn’t want to hear the words Morgana says, he doesn’t want to believe them— 

No, he simply refuses to fully acknowledge the truth that he knew all along. 

Time and time again he tried to convince himself that Arthur _ needs _ him, his support, his care and affection, his— 

No, not _ his_. 

It doesn’t have to be him. It _ shouldn’t _ be him, the man who’s capable of giving so little while taking tenfold more. 

In a different, better world Arthur could’ve had _ anyone _ he wanted, and there is no way he doesn’t realize it. 

He is far too noble to break his marriage vows. He’ll never demand his freedom back, he’ll never admit that he regrets the choice he made, and maybe he doesn’t regret it _ yet_, but he _ will_. 

The mere thought of it is torturous, agonizing, _ unbearable_. 

Gods, but this is just so perfectly cruel. Arthur took away Maleagant’s throne and his power, he took away his _ hatred_, and what’s left for him? 

What’s left for him except for love he cannot deal with? 

Maleagant takes a deep shuddering breath. His eyes are dry and itchy, it feels like they are full of sand. The lack of sleep is getting to him, he’s— 

Hurt, confused, _ helpless_. 

Gathering all strength he’s left, Maleagnat meets Morgana’s gaze unflinching. 

“What are you trying to accomplish?” he says. “If you’re trying to provoke me, you’re wasting your breath. I have no time and no desire to listen to you any longer.”

Morgana keeps silent. There is no mockery in her expression, her anger seems to subside. Her eyes are serious and unbearably intense, they are exactly the same color _ Arthur’s _ are, but Maleagant can never imagine them to be this cold. 

“You hold onto the things you’re not meant to have,” Morgana repeats. “It’s time for you to accept it, but not _ all _ of your goals are beyond your reach. I could help you. You know what I want. I know what you want, and at the end of the day our wishes are not that incompatible.” 

Maleagant doesn’t answer. He has _ nothing _ to say to her, and yet— 

Yet, he knows right away what Morgana is talking about, what she is _ offering _ to him. 

“You think I am a liar. You think I’m deceiving you — deceiving _ everyone _ — but you will find that I am as honest as you can get,” she says. “I’m certainly more honest than my dearest brother. He feeds you the sweetest lies trying not to hurt your precious fragile ego, and maybe he even believes his own lies, but it’s enough that _ you _ know the truth.” 

Does he? 

_ Doesn’t _ he? 

Why can’t he remain blind? Why can’t he live in the perfect illusion that Arthur worked so hard to create for them both? 

His heart is _ rotting_, it’s wasting away, and he can’t pretend it isn’t so, but he can’t _ stop _ it. 

The crown he dreamed of is made of thorns and it will bleed him dry. 

He longed for _ power_, but he has none. His title is a _ mockery _ when people still see _ Arthur _ as their true king, when it’s _ Arthur _ who always has the last word, when Maleagant submits to his will, bought for the cheapest price of gentle kisses and pretty, meaningless words. 

He longed for _ acceptance_, he wanted to be loved for what he is, but Arthur simply refuses to acknowledge the things that aren’t up to his tastes. He takes the scraps of affection Maleagant is capable of giving him and discards everything else. 

More than anything, Maleagant longed to be— not even happy, just _ content_, but he’s so far from it that it feels impossible, _ futile_. 

He’s balancing on the edge of the deepest of pits, he tries to reach for something out of his grasp and he will only tumble down in the end. 

There is no helping him. There is _ nothing _ that can make it better, and certainly not what Morgana is trying to accomplish. He won’t listen to her. He promised Arthur he won’t let her hurt him, but— 

It’s not _ she _ who does it, not really. 

“You don’t have to answer me just yet,” Morgana says, and though Maleagant doesn’t look at her, he hears the smirk in her voice. “But my offer will stand. Think about it.” 

Maleagant doesn’t _ want _ to, he _ won’t_. 

Deep inside of his mind the thought she planted spreads like poison.


	18. Homecoming

Arthur feels exhausted to the bone. His thighs tremble from the days spent in the saddle, his palms are scraped raw, his wounds ache and he’s barely keeping himself awake. He dreams of nothing more than taking a hot bath and curling in the arms of his husband who he’s been missing so fiercely. 

The horses are tired no less than the men. They drag their legs through the mud and fallen leaves, the smell of autumn mixes with their sweat and the coppery stench of blood that became too familiar during the past few months. 

It’s been a long campaign, brutal and bloody, and while Arthur knows that the losses they suffered were minor compared to the advantages they gained, each life that they lost still weighs heavily on his conscience.

In the end, they were able to push the barbarians back and banish them from the lands they had no right holding. What’s left of Cantia is nothing but an empty husk, a burnt-out wasteland soaked in blood, but it’s _ theirs _ once more. They will rebuild the towns and sow the fields, and they’ll make sure that no invader sets their foot there again. 

Arthur knows it’s in their power. He knows that Britain is stronger than ever, and he knows that he has his husband to thank for that. 

It’s frightening to imagine how this campaign could’ve turned out if not for Maleagant. Arthur may consider himself a good leader and a decent tactician, but long-time planning _ isn’t _ his strongest suit. If he were alone on the throne, if he married some noble’s daughter— 

Without enough food and medicine for his armies, he would’ve been forced to return to Camelot with barbarians’ forces severely diminished but not _ vanquished_.

It wouldn’t have been a loss, but neither it could've been called a victory. 

Now more than ever Arthur is aware of how truly beneficial it is to have Britain under the rule of not one king but _ two_. 

Maleagant has the power to make decisions no queen could possess, he has enough wisdom and wits for Arthur to rely on him fully. It’s true that they don’t always agree, it’s true that they both are willful and stubborn, but if Arthur learned anything it’s that Maleagant _ does _ know when it’s better to step back. He _ does _ value their kingdom’s fate more than winning an argument. 

Arthur had his doubts, but they bother him no longer. 

In some ways, he may still be that foolish child who by mistake bound his life to that of his biggest rival’s, but he wants to believe he _ matured _ since then. 

He knows he learned plenty from the man he grew to love with all of his heart. 

“I hate to say this,” Bors breaks the silence, distracting Arthur from his thoughts, “but this doesn’t look like the warm welcome I was expecting.” 

He presses his palm to his forehead, shielding his eyes from the sun, and squints at the castle. The bridge is lowered and the banners are raised, but the gates remain closed and there is no one to greet them but a couple of guards and Drest whose hulking figure is easily recognizable even from the distance. 

Arthur frowns. 

It _ is _ a little odd, but it’s likely that the news of their arrival simply didn’t reach the castle in time. People of Camelot welcomed them warmly, but they didn’t require an announcement to pause the work and cheer on the return of their king’s army. 

Most of the warriors choose to stay in the city. They will be drinking and feasting tonight, the taverns will be full of laughter and music, and they deserved it without a doubt, but Arthur can’t help but wonder just _ how _ they have any energy left for that. 

“I have no doubt that Drest is more than ready to give you the warmest of his welcomes,” Arthur says.

The joke falls a little flat, his heart isn’t quite in it, but it’s not like he’s going to miss an opportunity to tease Bors about his and Drest’s surprisingly tight friendship. Even if he knows for sure that the two of them _ don’t _ actually share the bed. 

Bors rolls his eyes. 

Arthur shrugs. He may be tired, his mind sluggish and his wit tragically absent, he may be battered both physically and mentally, but he’s _ happy _ to be home.

It doesn’t take long for their small party to reach the gates. 

Drest greets them with a half-hearted salute. His large mouth pulls into a familiar smirk, but Arthur can’t help but notice that his eyes are tight and weary. It makes the tiny flame of worry in his heart flare brighter, but he keeps his face straight as he dismounts his horse and gives the reins to the page boy. 

“Sire,” Drest lowers his head, then gives a quick signal for the guards to open the gates. “It’s good to see you back.” 

“It’s good to _ be _ back,” Arthur smiles, but the uneasiness he feels refuses to subside. “I suppose my husband must be too busy to greet me personally.” 

He keeps his tone light, but while he’s not offended by Maleagant’s absence, he’s— confused. He’s_ worried _ much more than he wants to admit. 

A small frown settles between Drest’s brows. 

“His Majesty King Maleagant hasn’t been feeling too well lately,” he says. 

“Is he… I hope it’s nothing serious.” 

Drest’s frown deepens. He casts a quick glance at the knights behind Arthur’s back as if unsure if he can speak freely. Perhaps he’s still wary of the lingering distrust a few of them used to feel towards Maleagant, but this campaign showed well just how _ unfounded _ it was. 

Not all of his people _ like _ Maleagant, but by now none of them can doubt that he’s good for Arthur, just like he’s good for their kingdom.

Drest exhales and shakes his head. 

“It’s not about his health, Arthur,” he says. “But I can hardly tell you what’s wrong. You should talk to him. And—” 

He pauses and chews on his lower lip. It’s odd — _ discomfiting _ — to see him this hesitant, he’s never had any trouble speaking his mind. 

“Your sister insisted you visit her first,” he finally adds. “She said that there is something you need to know and that it’s a matter of utmost importance.” 

Arthur grits his teeth, his fingers curl into loose fists. How utterly _ foolish _ he was to forget about Morgana, that _ viper _ who made her nest in his home. The only good thing about being away from Camelot was that he didn't have to see _ her _ then.

He tried so hard to erase from his memory her bizarre attempt to seduce him, to get rid of that awful crawling sensation that haunts him still. He wanted to pretend that everything is _ good_, that with the end of the war he left all horrors behind, but wasn’t that so terribly naive of him? 

He _ knows _ that he and Maleagant failed to fully mend the rift between them that the witch created. She couldn't tear them apart, but she succeeded in other awful things. 

Arthur felt _ wary _ of the intimacy between them in a way he would’ve never thought possible. He wanted it and feared it and never quite managed to make himself _ ask _ for it— 

He wanted his homecoming to be joyful and peaceful, but is he really surprised that it isn’t so?

“I will see her,” he says. 

Much as he wants to simply ignore her demand, it’s better he deals with whatever she tries to pull off this time. 

Arthur turns to look at his knights, reading on their faces the same worry he can’t help but feel. Not all of them know the full extent of what Morgana is capable of, but few are careless enough to underestimate the threat she poses. 

There is silent encouragement in Bors’ eyes, wariness and caution in Gawain’s. Lancelot seems to be the only one genuinely confused about the shift in the mood, but he hasn't been a part of their company for long. 

Arthur offers them a wry smile. 

“It looks like my war might not be over yet,” he says. 

“Well, what’s another battle?” Bors quips. “You won’t lose this one, Arthur.”

It is a flimsy reassurance, but Arthur feels grateful for it all the same. 

“I hope so,” he murmurs. “Take care.” 

He turns away without waiting for an answer, his mind already wandering, fruitlessly guessing what awaits him at Morgana’s mercy. 

The way to the chambers she occupies isn’t long, but Arthur’s muscles are aching and his head hurts and he wants this to be _ over_. He wants this to be something meaningless and easy to dismiss, but it’s never that simple with his sister. 

Arthur’s heart feels heavy. 

He dreads to let himself believe the worst, but Drest’s words about Maleagant still linger in his mind, and an awful sense of foreboding fills his soul to the brim. 

A narrow set of steps leads him to Morgana’s rooms. Arthur pauses before the doors, ornate and heavy and inexplicably ominous. It feels like there is doom awaiting him on the other side, but he still makes himself raise his hand and knock.

He hears the sound of steps drawing closer, a creaking of the lock, and then the door opens wide, revealing Morgana’s figure. Despite himself, Arthur notes how _ different _ she looks clad in a hunting attire instead of one of her usual extravagant dresses, and he can’t help but wonder if it’s _ him _ she chose as her prey.

“Dearest brother,” Morgana’s dark lips stretch into a predatory smile. “Welcome home and _ do _ come in. We have plenty to discuss.” 

Arthur rakes his fingers through his hair, matted and greasy from days spent on the road. He doesn’t want to show how confused and wary he feels, but he suspects Morgana already knows it. 

He steps into her room, dark and uninviting like everything she is, then follows her towards the fireplace. He watches as she makes herself comfortable in the armchair but refuses to sit down himself. He’s not sure he’ll be able to stand up, exhausted as he feels, but more than that he’s wary of allowing himself to relax in her presence. 

“What is it that you wanted to say to me?” he asks sharply. 

Morgana doesn’t answer right away. She leans back in her chair and steeples her fingers, she _ watches _ him with frankly unnerving intensity. 

“The grave news, I’m afraid,” he drawls, and while the tone of her voice suggests pity, her eyes gleam with _ glee _ she doesn’t even bother to hide. 

Arthur hates it. 

He hates her lying nature, her poisonous words, that _ darkness _ in her heart that feeds on her own hatred. The seed of it was planted _ years _ ago, that fateful night when Arthur was conceived. 

She learned to detest him even before he was born. 

In the moment of weakness, Arthur allowed himself to wonder if things could’ve been different between them. He’s fallen in love with his most bitter enemy and earned his affection in turn. Surely his own sister, his blood was capable of forgiving him for the transgression that _ wasn’t his fault? _

And yet, deep in his heart, he knew this hope to be foolish. Morgana _ is _ hurting, but she is also vicious. He genuinely _ enjoys _ the games that she plays and the misery that she inflicts. Revenge might be the sweetest thing she ever tasted, and Arthur can’t imagine what he could offer her to—

To make her let him _ be_. 

“Why don’t you ask me what this news might be?” she says, her voice cloyingly sweet. 

She needs him to play her game, and much as Arthur wants to refuse, he _ can’t_. 

“What news?” 

He’s ashamed of how weak his voice sounds, how complacent he seems, how ready to succumb to her torture. 

Morgana cocks her head to the side, her expression seemingly thoughtful. 

“You _ do _ know what day it is today, don’t you?” 

Arthur feels lost. What could it matter? 

“I don’t really remember,” he admits.

He lost the count of the days, but it must be at least a few weeks before the Samhain, and he fails to see the significance this date might hold. 

“Of course, it’s not really _ today’s _ date that matters,” Morgana says. “On the other hand, the one that passed about a month ago…” 

She makes a pause, deliberate and theatrical, holds it just enough for her next words to have his utmost attention. 

“The Waiting Year is over, Arthur.” 

The silence follows. It feels hollow and ringing and impossibly _ loud_, or maybe that’s just the sound of blood rushing into his head. Arthur feels queasy, but that must be the exhaustion catching up on him, surely— 

The Waiting Year. The whole year from the day the marriage offer was made, a time for the couple to set aside their differences and ensure that neither would be tempted to get rid of the other. 

Maleagant used it to taunt Arthur’s knights and mock them with the empty threats no one has long since taken seriously. 

They joked about it not once. 

They let themselves forget about it entirely. 

Surely Morgana can’t be implying what he _ thinks _ she is implying?

“What of it?” he croaks. 

He shouldn’t be asking this question at all, he doesn’t need to hear Morgana’s lies. Not _ once_, not even during the first few weeks of their shaky truce Arthur feared being stabbed in the back by Maleagant, with the protection of the Waiting Year or without it. 

It’s not like _ him_. He is an honorable man, he rigorously adheres to his own code of morals, and while Arthur doesn’t think him infallible, he _ knows _ that’s the line he will not cross. 

“You know what I fail to understand about you, baby brother,” Morgana says. Her voice sounds softer, but that must be another trap. “You are so genuinely _ good_, so honorable and brave, a king worth being admired by his people. Your old man could’ve taken a lesson or two.” The fleeting smile on her lips is tight and angry. “And yet the man you chose to fall for is the exact _ opposite _ of that. A weak creature endlessly tortured by his own doubts, he may be reckless, but he’s a _ coward_, fearing to admit both his feelings and faults. He’s nothing but a stain on your reputation, and yet— Yet you _ love _ him, don’t you?” 

_ Love_. She says this word with a mixture of derision and glee as if she just discovered a priceless cracked treasure in a pile of filth. 

The anger Arthur feels is suffocatingly hot, it’s strong enough to push to the side all of his other emotions. How _ dare _ she belittle Maleagant. He may not be perfect, but even at his worst, he’s still eons _better_ than her. 

How dare she play on his insecurities. He’s not here to hear it, not _ now_, but— 

She must’ve had plenty of time to tell him all of these awful things before and make him believe the worst of his fears. 

“I do love him,” Arthur says, his voice shaking from the anger he fails to control. “I do love him, and I don’t _ care _ for what you are trying to imply here. I—” 

“I don’t imply anything,” Morgana interrupts harshly. “I’m _ telling _ you the very thing you refuse to see, blinded by your foolish love. Your dearest husband is planning to kill you. He wants to get rid of you and take the throne for himself, he wants to finally become a king, and not just— well, whatever he is now. A _ concubine_.” 

She sneers at him, vicious and ugly, and never in his life Arthur wished to hit a woman so badly. He barely restrains himself. 

“You’re _ lying_,” he says — he almost _shouts _ — but the anger in his voice sounds so utterly helpless. “You are lying, witch. He would _ never _ do anything like that.” 

_ Why _ does it seem like he’s trying to reassure himself?

He does believe in what he’s saying, with all of his heart. No matter how hard it gets, no matter how many obstacles they face, he _ knows _ that this is not the way Maleagant would ever choose. But— 

“You will find out, Arthur, that I _ never _ lie.” Morgana’s features soften, a mockery of pity colors her expression. 

She’s so _ good _ at playing this game, and Arthur wonders, briefly, just how much time she spent with that troupe of hers, honing her art of acting. 

It’s nothing _ but _ acting, of that he is sure. 

There are more ways to lie than simply with words. 

“You may not believe me, baby brother,” Morgana adds, “but I _ do _ care about you.” 

Arthur has never heard a more blatant lie. 

Whatever messed-up feelings Morgana harbors towards him, even the most twisted version of care can’t be amongst them. All she wants is to see him suffer, and for that, he’ll find his weakest spot and strike him down without mercy. 

He may not be adept at playing mind games himself, but he’s learned enough to recognize them and he _ will not _ fall into her trap. 

“I’m done listening to you,” Arthur says. “I shouldn’t have come here at all, but this is getting ridiculous. You can’t expect me to believe that my husband would make an attempt on my life, not after— not after everything we’ve been through.” 

Morgana laughs. 

She _ laughs _ at him, unexpectedly and startingly genuine, as if she’s truly deeply amused by his expression or his words or his unfailing conviction. 

“Oh, Arthur.” She’s still chuckling, disgustingly _ pleased _ with the misery she inflicts. “You _ are _ a naive fool, aren’t you? You truly believe that love can be strong enough to vanquish all wrongs, and I understand it. I do. A long time ago, I was stupid enough to believe that too, but life taught me the very same lesson I’m trying to teach _ you_. And you... You haven’t even noticed, have you?” 

Gods, how Arthur wishes he could just _leave_ her and stop listening to her just like he promised he would, but there is something _ different _ in her words, in the tone of her voice. 

“What are you talking about?” he whispers. 

“You think I am set to ruin your lovely marriage,” Morgana says, and for once her voice is void of theatrics, “but it was doomed from the start. You see, Arthur, you took a snake into your bed, and snakes… they might not be evil, but they will bite you if you step on their tail, and, oh, you’ve been doing that _ repeatedly _.”

Arthur swallows. 

It feels like there is something heavy and cold lodged in his throat, making it harder to breathe. It’s _ dread, _he thinks. It’s— 

Of all the awful things Morgana said, why does _ this _one feel so different? Why can’t he dismiss it just as easily as her other lies? 

But deep in his heart Arthur knows the answer. He doesn’t want to admit there might be a twisted truth woven into the fabric of her deception, but _ denying _ it won’t save him. He spent too much time pushing these thoughts away, and he’s never thought himself a coward, but isn’t that what he _ is_? 

He _ knows _ that things aren’t perfect between him and Maleagant. 

He knows Morgana played her part in that, but was it that grand? 

Could it be possible that Arthur was the one hurting Maleagant all of this time? Could it be possible that _ he _ pushed his husband towards the edge he swore to stir him further away from? 

Could it be that every time he thought they were dealing with their problems they were only burying them deeper? 

_ Is _ he blind just like Morgana suggests he is?

He knows Maleagant. He knows that he’s easily hurt and prone to overthinking and tends to believe the worst in people. He’s endlessly complicated, so how did Arthur manage to decide that things are going to be easy between them? 

This may not be the realization Morgana wished to push him to, but it doesn’t matter. 

Something _ is _ wrong, whether by Arthur’s own doing or Morgana’s clever manipulation or both, and— 

“I happen to know,” Morgana continues, “that your husband acquired a deadly poison to kill you. He’s so impatient to be free of your pathetic love and the power you hold over him, that he won’t be content to wait even a day before he puts it to use.” 

Arthur raises his head to meet her eyes. 

She thinks herself triumphant, she sees his doubt and feeds on it, but she’s _ wrong. _ No matter what awful, bitter realizations Arthur had to face, he’s still convinced in one thing. 

Maleagant _ won’t _ hurt him like this. 

“I don’t believe you,” he says, surprised at how calm he sounds. 

“Your choice.” Morgana seems unperturbed by his unwillingness to give up as if his continuing struggle only further amuses her. “Why don’t you go then and see your beloved? I’m sure you missed him plenty. But if this ends in your death… Well, brother dearest, never let it be said that I did nothing to warn you.” 

_ What _ is she trying to achieve here? Does she want to break his trust in Maleagant, his _ heart_, leaving him miserable and guilty? 

Maybe there _ is _ a poison waiting for him, but Arthur— 

Arthur will see for himself. 

He _ will _ see, he refused to remain blind, and whatever wrongs he may find he will _ fix_. 

Of that, he swears to himself and all the Gods that might listen.


	19. The Poison

Maleagant’s fingers twitch as he tries to stifle the urge to touch the goblet that stands on the table right before his eyes. It taunts him, reminds him of his weakness and his misery, it promises him _ freedom _ from everything that haunts him. 

Of course, for _ that_, he’ll have to drink it himself. 

The liquid that fills the goblet looks like water, it’s odorless and clear, but it _ is _ deadly. Maleagant made sure to test it beforehand, unwilling to put his trust in Morgana’s words, but they were _ truthful _ this time. 

The poison she gave him is rare. Completely untraceable, it promises a quick and painless death, and Maleagant _ needs _ it to be so, because for what it’s worth he’s never wanted for Arthur to suffer. Not even when he hated him. 

When he _ hated _ him, his hatred didn’t bring him death. 

His love will. 

Gods, but Maleagant doesn’t _ want _ to see this through, he can barely comprehend what he’s doing and the reality he’ll have to live in when everything is over, he— 

He pushes his fingers through his hair, he _ tugs _ on it as hard as he can, but the pain doesn’t feel real. 

If there is anything he knows it’s that he _ can’t _ go on like this. He _ tried_. He tried so hard to vanquish his traitorous thoughts and to accept his life the way it is, but it tortures him and suffocates him and he— 

He _ can’t_. 

If he were a better person, he would’ve found a different way to ease Arthur’s burden and get him rid of a husband he’s never wanted, but Maleagant _ isn’t_. 

He’s so tired of being second best — not even _ that _ — both for his people and his husband. There is no recipe to make Arthur love him, and this is why— 

This is why he _ needs _ the throne. 

What would he lose? 

With Arthur gone, Maleagant will finally be free of the constant reminder of the things he’s never been good enough to deserve. He won’t have to see how day after day Arthur will be getting tired of him, bound by his honor and _ resentful _for that. 

He would’ve given_ so much _for the chance to forever remain in that blissful time that followed their wedding, the time when his heart wasn’t yet poisoned by love, the time when Arthur’s easy affection, his gentle touches, and his sweet kisses were enough. 

The time when, impossibly so, Maleagant seemed to be enough for his husband. 

Once, he was satisfied with being scorned and despised by Arthur, once, he cherished the promise of genuine affection from him, but now— 

Now, when he loves, when he aches, he needs so much _ more_. 

He won’t be able to bear Arthur’s indifference. 

The light from the fireplace dances on the rune-covered surface of the goblet. It was one of the gifts they got for their wedding, and Maleagant can’t help but remember that once Arthur called the memory of it to be _ happy_. It’s not quite their anniversary yet, not quite the right time to taint it and _ ruin _ it— 

Is Maleagant _ truly _ ready to do that? 

The sound of footsteps nearing his chambers jerks him out of his thoughts. 

They are so achingly _ familiar_, although it’s been a while since he heard them, and Maleagant isn’t quick enough to push back the thought that after tonight— 

He will not hear them again. 

There will be only silence to bear, quiet solitude of the royal chambers, suffocating _ loneliness _ he won’t share. Just like his throne. 

Maleagant stands up abruptly. He tries to school his features into something welcoming and pleasant but fails so miserably he dreads to even imagine how he must look. 

Arthur doesn’t knock. He doesn’t _ need _ to, these are chambers belong to him, and Maleagant simply occupies him with no real right to— 

The door opens with a soft creak. 

Arthur stands in the doorway, fresh from the road, tired and battle-worn, and Maleagant feels his breath catch in his throat. He feels _ paralized _ by the sight of his husband, still clad in full armor, his chest-plate bearing the deep scratches of enemies’ blades and his cloak stained by blood. His beard is shaggy and his hair unkempt, his gaze is weary, and yet the moment their eyes meet, his lips curve into a soft genuine smile. 

“Maleagant,” Arthur exhales. 

He takes a few swift steps towards Maleagant and tugs him into a loose embrace. 

Maleagant lets him. He doesn’t know how to fight the force that Arthur is, nor does he want to. Relaxing in his arms, he breathes in his smell, of blood and steel and sweat.

_ Gods_, but he missed him. 

He lets Arthur kiss him too. He meets the caress of his mouth, demanding and hot and yet so achingly _ gentle_. It feels like it lasts forever and ends so awfully soon. 

When they part, Arthur’s face is flushed and his lips are bright, but his eyes seem clear and searching. 

Maleagant wonders what answers he can read on his face. 

“I missed you,” Arthur whispers. 

His thumb smooths the curve of Maleagant’s eyebrow, brushes the tender skin under his eye where the deep shadows lie. They came from the nights spent sleepless, from doubts and misery and second-guessing, from balancing for too long on the edge of the abyss. 

He wonders if he still can be saved from tumbling down, when Arthur is _ here_, holding him tightly, when he— 

When he makes his hurts quieter but never _ silent_. 

“You look awful,” Arthur murmurs. There is a hint of a smile playing on his lips, but his eyes are oddly vulnerable and sad. 

He breaks the embrace and steps back, he _ looks _ at Maleagant with an intensity he’s not used to, and— 

Maleagant doesn’t know what to say. 

He wants to tell Arthur that he missed him too.

He wants to tell him that the months without him felt meaningless and tortuous, that he _ feels _ so much worse than he could possibly look. 

“Are you…” Arthur pauses. 

His mouth curves into a frown, miserable and forlorn, and maybe he suspects something is amiss. Maybe he’ll _ stop _ Maleagant before it’s too late. 

It’s already too late. 

“Are you unhappy with me?”

There is hurt in Arthur’s voice, _ shame _ in his eyes as if he can’t bear the thought of this being true, and Maleagant wishes he could reassure him. He wishes he could say that Arthur has never ever brought him anything but joy, but that would be a _ lie_.

He’s _ never _ happy. He’s never satisfied, he’s tortured by the traitorous voice that whispers to him that no matter what he does or how he acts no one would ever accept him. 

He’s never happy, and yet— 

There is another voice, smaller and weaker, that reminds him of the moments he cannot simply discard. It reminds him of Arthur’s gentle embraces, his soothing touches that chased away the pain, his easy affection, his warmth, his laughter, his— 

Once, Arthur said how happy _ he _ is to have Maleagant. 

The silence lasts a moment too long. 

Something changes in Arthur’s eyes, his sadness and shame give way to resolve. He looks determined in a way that _ confuses _ Maleagant, it makes him wonder— 

“You know what? I’m thirsty.” 

For the briefest of moments, Maleagant is thrown off guard, he doesn’t _ understand _ the sudden change of topic, but Arthur is reaching for the goblet filled with poison, he raises it to his lips— 

“Put it back,” Maleagant says, surprised by the strength of his voice. 

It’s not a request, it’s a _ command_, and Arthur obeys it without a question. 

He stills, the rim of the goblet almost touching his lips, and there is no trace of surprise written on his face, nothing but bizarre, out-of-place _ satisfaction_. 

Maleagant’s heart beats wildly in his chest, so fast it’s almost painful, and it’s— 

It must be that— 

“You know,” he rasps. “You _ know _ what’s in this gods-damned goblet.” 

“Yes,” Arthur doesn’t even try to deny it. “Morgana was _ kind _ enough to fill me in. I—” 

_ Of course _ Morgana told Arthur everything.

Maleagant shouldn’t be surprised. He _ isn’t. _ If his mind weren’t clouded by his own misery, he would’ve realized from the start that it’s not Arthur’s _ death _ she seeks, nothing quite so easy, and— 

It doesn’t matter. 

“You were going to drink it,” Maleagant says, his voice so quiet and unsure he barely recognizes it. “If I— if I hadn’t stopped you—” 

He isn’t sure how he knows, why he’s so convinced of that truth. It doesn’t make sense, it’s utterly _ foolish _ even for Arthur, and yet— 

Arthur shakes his head. 

“You did stop me,” he says. “I wasn’t going to drink it because you were never going to _ let _ me. I don’t care what Morgana said, I’ve _ never _ doubted that.” 

But Maleagant did. He _ does_. 

Arthur’s expression is earnest and open, his eyes are warm and full of affection— for _ Maleagant_, a vile, cowardly man, a monster he swore he wasn’t, and yet what kind of person would even contemplate what he was about to do?

If Maleagant kept silent or even hesitated for too long, if Arthur didn’t know— 

He would’ve been dead now. 

He would’ve been _ dead_, forever gone from Maleagant’s life. He would’ve taken away all impossible dreams of ever having enough of his attention, of being truly _ equal _ on the throne that was never meant to be shared. 

He would’ve taken away the nights spent curled in each other’s arms, warm and content, he would’ve taken away the carefree laughter and easy affection and the feeling of _ belonging._ He would’ve— 

No. Not _ him_. It would’ve been _ Maleagant’s _ fault. It would’ve been _ him _ who killed the only person he truly loved, and— 

It feels real. Suddenly it feels too _ real_. It’s not some convoluted plan, an awful but necessary decision, an idea of something he doesn’t even _ want_, it’s— 

Maleagant is shaking. 

He’s _ shaking_, his head spins and his vision blurs, and he barely manages to take a step back before he falls into the armchair.

His breaths come too fast, the bile clogs his throat, his mind is pulsing with the dreadful, horrible, _ agonizing _ realization he cannot hope to silence. 

He could’ve _ lost _ Arthur. 

And maybe that’s exactly what he deserves, the cold dead weight of the crown, the empty throne that would forever remind him of everything he ruined by his own hands, but Arthur— 

Arthur, who is kind and impossibly good, Arthur, who genuinely cares for his people, Arthur, whose only fault is being unable to love a monster— 

_ He _ deserves to be alive. He deserves to be happy and loved by someone— 

Someone who’s _ not _ Maleagant. 

“Maleagant,” Arthur kneels before him. His eyes are wide-open and full of pain, of _ tears _ that aren’t yet spilled. “My heart, I am so _ sorry _.” 

Maleagant doesn’t understand. 

The words come to him muted as if he’s stuck deep underwater, they don’t make _ sense_, but when they do— 

When Maleagant finally _ hears _ them, he laughs, broken and hoarse. 

“_You? _” he rasps the only word he can manage. 

What Arthur has to be sorry for? It’s Maleagant who needs to beg him for forgiveness. It’s Maleagant who needs to get on his knees and plead for his worst crime to be pardoned, and yet— 

He _ can’t_. 

He can’t say that he’s sorry. His mouth is sewn shut, his soul is a raw mess, his mind is tattered, and he doesn’t even know what he _ wants_— 

He can’t have it. 

No matter what it is, he can’t have it. 

“Look at me,” Arthur whispers. His hands squeeze Maleagant’s, his thumb smooths the thin skin of his wrist, feeling the wild, erratic beat of his heart. “Please, just look at me.” 

Maleagant obeys. 

_ Of course _he obeys, he’s never been able to refuse his husband. 

“I love you,” Arthur says. His voice is soft and quiet, but his eyes shine with absolute conviction as if even now there is no trace of doubt in his heart. 

Maleagant believes him. 

So _ easily_, he believes in the very thing he thought impossible, but the feeling he sees in Arthur’s eyes can’t be anything _ but _ love. It’s raw and sincere, it’s imperfect and real, it’s— 

It’s been there a while. 

Maleagant can’t even remember the time when Arthur looked at him differently, and yet he _ missed _ it. Blinded by his fears, self-doubt, ambitions, he _ missed _ it. 

“I _ love _ you,” Arthur repeats, “I love you so much, and I am so terribly _ sorry _ that I haven’t told you this before, that I failed to show you how much you mean to me. The last thing I wanted was to make you unhappy, to push you this far, but I _ did_, and I—”

His eyes are wet and his lashes tremble, he looks like he’s about to cry, and— 

He’s still so _ young_, so foolish and soft-hearted. All of his life he dreamt of having a family, a place to belong. He chose _ Maleagant_, he gave him his heart, and what Maleagant has done with it? 

What has he _ done_? 

“It’s not you who should ask for forgiveness,” Maleagant murmurs. 

He raises his hand to gently stroke Arthur’s hair, still matted and greasy from the days he spent on the road. He should’ve been welcomed by a hot bath and strong wine, and what he got instead— 

Arthur shakes his head. 

“_Don’t_,” he says. He leans into Maleagant’s touch, still trusting, still _ his _ even if he no longer deserves it. He never truly did. “I’m not going to let Morgana get away with this.” There is no anger in Arthur’s voice, no hatred, just exhaustion. “I don’t care how close you have to keep your enemies, I’m getting _ rid _ of her, consequences be damned.” 

Maleagant simply laughs at that, hollow and bitter. 

“You won’t have an enemy closer than me.” 

He slithered his way into Arthur’s heart and _ shattered _ it, he came too close to taking his life as well. Maleagant has always thought that people detested him without reason, but maybe they always saw the kind of monster he could be.

It doesn’t matter what fate awaits Morgana, it doesn’t matter that Maleagant was stopped this time, he’s still a threat, the beast in him is dangerous and hungry, it _ can’t _ be kept alive. He— 

“You are not my enemy,” Arthur meets his eyes. “You are my _ husband,_ the man I love more than anything in my life, the man I trust with all my heart, and I know I gave you plenty of reasons to doubt me, _ us_, but we’re stronger than that. Please, don’t let yourself believe otherwise.”

Maleagant’s mouth folds into a bitter pull. Arthur may genuinely trust him, his heart may be strong enough to hold onto this belief, but Maleagant’s _ isn’t_. 

The darkness took its root in his heart. It was watered by unhappiness he felt, by every doubt and every misunderstanding, and it grew too strong. 

Arthur’s affection, his soothing words only put a bandage over the festering wound that became his soul, they won’t _ heal _ it. It doesn’t matter how much Maleagants wants to forgive himself and forget this mess ever happened, he _ can’t_. 

“We’ve been through this before,” he says. “Not— not _ this_, perhaps, but—” 

Arthur keeps silent. There is no hint of understanding in his eyes, but he is willing to listen, it’s just— 

Maleagant doesn’t _ know _ how to put his fears into words. 

It’s always seemed so easy for Arthur to bare his soul before him, to be _ vulnerable _ before him, but for all that Maleagant never outright lied to him, he’s still not sure how to be _ honest_. 

Maleagant frowns and lowers his eyes onto his lap. Arthur’s hands still lie atop of his thighs, his palms broad and long-fingered, his knuckles scraped raw and his nails dirty. 

He really needs a bath, and Maleagant wishes he could just tell him to fetch the servants and be _ done _ with this.

He wishes—

“I was unhappy these past few months,” he makes himself say even though he knows that his words will hurt Arthur. “I was unhappy because no matter what you promised me I’ve never felt your equal. Every time I voiced my dissatisfaction, you soothed it with sweet kisses and sweeter words — just like you’re doing now — but nothing ever _ changed_. I was unhappy because I felt useless. I felt like sooner or later you’re going to realize you don’t need me, not when you can have someone so much better—” 

“But I want _ you_,” Arthur interrupts. He _ does _ sound hurt, he sounds miserable and guilty, and Maleagant doesn’t _ want _ to shift the blame, he just— “There is no one _ better _ for me. I love you, and if only it’s in my power I will never, ever let you go.” 

For how long has Maleagant wanted to hear these exact words? 

Months? A year? His whole _ life _ that he spent searching, longing for something he couldn’t put into words, reaching for the heights he wasn’t meant to conquer in hope to soothe the yearning of his soul? 

He wonders if maybe this _ could _ be enough. 

“I knew from the start how different we are,” Arthur says quietly, “and yet like an utter fool, I convinced myself that you feel like _ I _ do, that you—” he pauses. “I’ve never doubted us. I’ve never needed reassurances or confessions, but you _ do _.”

Maleagant does, doesn’t he? 

He’s never given Arthur words of love, of anything that spoke of more than superficial affection. He wasn’t _ capable _ of that, but what he could offer to Arthur he _ did_. He just never thought it could be enough, it wouldn’t be for _ him_, but maybe— 

Maybe, Maleagant failed to grasp their differences too. 

“More than anything in the world, I want you to be happy.” Arthur squeezes his hands once more, he brings them closer to his lips to place a gentle, almost reverent kiss to his knuckles. “I _ need _ you in my life. I need your cleverness and your wit, your support and—” 

“You don’t need _ me _ for that,” Maleagant interjects bitterly. “A pretty wife could give you all of that and more.” 

He almost regrets saying these words, but that’s what he _ believes_. Perhaps, it’s time he _ stops _ silencing his hurts, perhaps it’s time he lets the poison out, and then— 

Then, once his wound is finally cleaned, he could hope it would heal. 

“That’s just not true,” Arthur shakes his head. “No wife could’ve helped me to achieve the victory in this campaign. It wouldn’t be half as successful without you, and I don’t think anyone fails to see that. I know you still doubt that, but we are equal in—”

“_Are _ we?” 

Maleagant wants to understand. He wants to know how _ Arthur _ sees that, for maybe in this, too, he failed to see something that should’ve been obvious. 

In this, too, he has too many doubts to simply let it go. 

“Have you ever noticed that every time we disagree, you _ always _ get your way? It’s always _ your _ decision that matters most, it’s always _ your _ word that remains the last.” 

Maleagant grits his teeth, trying to stifle the flare of anger he doesn’t want to — has no _ right _ to — feel. 

“I just don’t start a fight at all when I think you might be right,” Arthur murmurs, but this time his words lack conviction. “I—” 

He falls silent. He seems to be searching for an answer instead of offering empty platitudes, and Maleagant waits for it with patience he doesn’t often feel. 

He wonders how it all came to this. 

He wonders why they’re still talking, why Arthur is even trying to explain himself when it was Maleagant who almost— 

“I don’t know how to back off when I’m convinced that I’m right,” Arthur admits. “It’s not about you being less of a king than I am and it’s not about me having any sort of power over you. It’s about me being stubborn to a fault, and I have no idea how to change that. I just— I don’t want to hurt you, but how can I agree with something I don’t even believe in?” 

Maleagant exhales. 

He gets it. He _ does._ Arthur is ruled by his heart and his passion, his convictions are always unshakable and strong. He can’t be moved by rational arguments, because there is nothing _ rational _ in the way he feels. 

But there is nothing rational in the way Maleagant feels either, and right now he feels— 

Tired. Exhausted by this talk, by their marriage, by _ his whole life. _

“I made a lot of mistakes,” Arthur adds, his voice soft and quiet. “I failed to show you how worthy you are, to me and to our kingdom. I let myself believe that our disagreements truly are past us when your hurts remained and I couldn’t see them. I should have. I should’ve _ talked _ to you, and instead, I chose to pretend that our problems don’t exist or that they will simply sort themselves out, I— I am truly sorry for that. For what it’s worth, I _ will _ try to do better.” 

Gods, how eager he is to admit his shortcomings. How unafraid he is to be _ human_, imperfect, and far from infallible, but still so genuinely _ good_. 

Maleagant isn’t good. He is a _ mess_, he has too much darkness in his heart and succumbs to it far too easy, but— 

His love for Arthur may be tainted too, but it’s still the only _ light _ he has. 

He doesn’t want to lose it. 

“I’m sorry too,” he says, and the words come _ easy _ even though not long ago they seemed impossible to utter. “I’m sorry for obsessing over my hurts, I’m sorry that I let myself be pushed so far. _ Too _ far. I’m sorry I was too eager to choose failure when I should've chosen a fight. I’m— I’m _ sorry _ that the thought of living my life without you even crossed my mind, and you may believe that I wouldn’t have seen it through, but I’m can’t, not fully, and it _ scares _ me.” 

He wills himself to look up. 

There is no judgment in Arthur’s eyes, no fear, and no doubt, just _ understanding_. 

Just sadness. 

“I’m tired,” Maleagant admits. “I’m so _ tired _ of this, I don’t—” 

He shakes his head. 

“It’s alright,” Arthur says. “It’s _ enough._ We can’t solve everything at once, we just—” 

They just need to believe it’s _ possible_. 

Where Arthur chose to believe their problems didn’t exist, Maleagant convinced himself they cannot be dealt with, and both of them were _ wrong_. 

Neither of them is good at talking. It won’t be _ easy_, it will be painful and humiliating, but this is something they’ll have to learn if they truly want to build something solid, something that will _ last_, instead of folding in on itself like a paper castle. 

Maleagant silently lowers his head. 

Arthur raises to his feet, wincing from the pain in his undoubtedly sore muscles. He casts a quick glance at the goblet that still sits at the edge of the table, and for a moment his eyes flash with anger Maleagant knows isn’t aimed at him. 

“We should get rid of it,” Arthur says. “Just— toss it in the fire and be done with it, I don’t want to see—” 

“No,” Maleagant shakes his head. “No, leave it where it is. It’s still the evidence, albeit a poor one. It’s my word against hers, but it was _ she _ who gave me the means to kill you. It might be enough to warrant a death sentence or at least a life exile.” 

The thought of exposing his role in this mess, no matter _ how _ it will be presented, leaves a sour taste in his mouth, but that’s something he’s willing to do.

He won’t give Morgana any more chances to hurt Arthur. 

Arthur simply nods, not even trying to argue, and maybe it’s true that he listened to Maleagant more often than he thought. _ Maybe _ it’s nothing but a poor attempt to reassure himself, but— 

It doesn’t matter now. 

They will have plenty of time to figure things out. 

“Tell the servants to draw you a bath,” Maleagant says, “and I will take care of everything else. You should rest. You certainly deserve it.” 

He smiles, a little crookedly and wryly. It feels odd to act as if nothing happened, but he suspects that both of them need this semblance of normalcy right now. 

Arthur offers him a small smile in turn, much warmer and genuine. 

He’s still here. 

He’s still _ here_, he’s real, he’s— 

He’s_ alive_, and the relief this brings is almost suffocating. 

“I really do,” Arthur huffs a laugh. “Those last few months were so damned _ stressful_, for both of us, and— Some rest is definitely in order.” He pauses for a moment, contemplating, and the idea coming to his mind must be a brilliant one, for it brings _ light _ into his eyes. “Our anniversary is getting closer, and I think that maybe we should spend it where it all started. I’ve heard Gore is terribly beautiful this time of the year.” 

Maleagant’s smile grows a little bit softer. 

He allows himself to imagine it too, being _ home_, thinking of nothing that haunts him, enjoying his time with the person he loves. He still cherishes the memories of the months they spent there when Maleagant felt the happiest in his whole life, but maybe he can be happier still. 

Maybe he even _ deserves _ that. 

Maybe what he deserves doesn’t matter at all. 

He _ has _ Arthur. He won’t allow himself to lose him. 

“I would like that,” he murmurs. 

The light in Arthur’s eyes shines even brighter. He leans down to cradle Maleagant’s face between his palms, then places a lingering kiss on his forehead. It’s achingly familiar, it feels like a silent confession, a gentle reassurance, a _ promise_. 

In a way, it all started with this, once a meaningless gesture of affection, the first step they took towards each other. It started with this, but it won’t end— 

It will _ never _ end, not by Maleagant’s hand. 

This moment, he makes a decision to never give up. 

He knows how to fight for his goals with a single-minded obsession, and keeping something he already has might be incomparably harder, but if there is anything worth all possible sacrifices it’s _ that_. 

With all of his heart, without the faintest traces of doubt, Maleagant _ believes _ it. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy shit I can't believe it's over! It took me over two years (!) to write and post this story, and it's actually the first novel-length story I've ever finished. I feel kind of proud of myself and kind of empty. I really hope you enjoyed reading this story even half as much as I enjoyed writing it. 
> 
> I'm forever grateful to _Kangoo_, who talked me into posting it, and _Citizen_Of_Matratzien_, whose comments sometimes were the only thing that kept me going. 
> 
> P.S. the boys are going to be okay, I promise  
P.P.S. please let me know if any of you might be interested in seeing more stories from me (in some... very distant future)


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